Time Traveler's Life
by ChuckTheElf
Summary: The Department of Mysteries was empty. Abandoned. Harry Potter and his friends entered and left without seeing a single Unspeakable. But what if one Operative had stayed? This is the tale of Temporal Operative U-15, and his very *very* long day. Beta assistance from Miss Leader and Aich. Much thanks.
1. Introduction

_"The work of an Unspeakable is Unspeakably dull. Either you die through the tedious boredom of research, or the stupidity of your coworkers."_ ~ _U-15 Orange Sigma_

* * *

o0o

The Unspeakable sidestepped a cloaked figure without losing a step. His own form, shrouded in the all-concealing robes of his station, continued its stalking walk, unhurried movements making its determined way through the crowded hall. Even in _his _department there existed a lack of time for processing reports. One man in a telephone booth, no matter how enchanted, did not rate more than a few minor reports.

Out of the tail of one eye, another cloaked figure shivered, and abruptly vanished.

He kept a shiver under control. _"Someone's going to get a good lambasting for that. No Time Turners in public."_

Still, he obliged common convention and slowed his pace. The actions were mirrored by the majority of cloaked figures in eyeshot. One such figure drew closer, following him as he walked. Agent U-15 folded his arms behind his back, palm upwards.

_"Please, not me. Not me. Let it be anyone but me," _his thoughts repeated themselves, chanting faster and faster. Precious seconds tiptoed past, stretching into a full minute.

The thin sensation of paper, folded over enough times to create a cutting edge, jabbed into the thin skin of his palm. His fingers closed on the material, just the phalanges tightening. Movement of the hands or arms would betray the reception of non-time-standard messaging, which in turn could affect the event considered important enough to necessitate time travel in the first place. Every Chrono-operative in the Temporal Division was trained to understand that seamless lack of reaction, the subtle mastery of body language unconsciously given through the simple fact of being human.

Thirty seconds later the Unspeakable U-15 – allowing the luxury of personal names would be a downright lazy thought whilst the robes were still on – brought his hands around once more, the hard bit of parchment sliding into place inside the sleeve under his wrist.

A tense brace of minutes ensued, as he made his way to a cubicle reserved for himself and himself alone. No one entered an Unspeakable's private laboratory without an expert team of Cursebreakers or three. Gringotts protections boasted a lethal reputation, but an Unspeakable team employed viciousness on an entirely different level.

_'Not including personalization,'_ Agent U-15 relaxed as the powerful wards washed over his apparel. His own design came from a muggle device known as an _airlock_. His version used twin sealed doors that prevented entrance or egress before a thorough evaluation of a potentially hostile environment could be completed. Of course, updating the wards was a constant job; new curses were developed every week, worming their way around the department like the Slashkilter some sarding fool had created, then lost. It had taken weeks of Reversed Time to trace the thing's progress, and an entire month of trying different baits until someone had the bright idea of checking for mating behavior.

The Lovegoods would never let that go, either. Every few issues a reference to the _Umgubular_ _Slashkilter_ would surface, their way of thumbing their teeth at the Department.

Satisfied, the wards allowed him entrance.

In the safety of his sanctum, Karl Timonssen relaxed. His hood lowered, cloak releasing its fastening charms before drifting to a place on the door-ward wall. Everything was the same, a place where his possessions could remain secure, and the little projects he worked on the side could be monitored in true solitude.

Like most employees in the Department of Mysteries, this had started with a basic cubicle. Upon entry to the Time Division, everything had been transferred to a new room, created specifically for him. Every new employee had one; magic allowed a thousand offices each having the potential size of a stadium room, yet existing in a layer as thin as a coat of paint. Each room rested secure within the personalized security created by individual owners – frequent issues in past centuries had barred entry for anyone but the personal master of the miniature realm. Even the Director had to receive permission from the owner before gaining access.

Idle hands checked a recursive algorithm he'd started some time ago. It was a simple loop experiment, rebounding dust from the Saharan Desert through a tunnel made of pure orichalcum; in a few years, he might be able to evaluate the theory if the Great Sphinx had indeed caused the desert to become a desert, based on the results. All members of his division had experiments going on the side; combined with the security and paranoia meant no one knew when or what was going on a scant _thaum_ away. So far as he knew, there were forgotten experiments going on in his hall that had been started over half a millennium before, monitored by charmed automatons, forgotten or unknown – even if they _were _known, no one had the solution to stopping them.

He glanced at a note on the wall above the splashback, in the potions brewing area. The one reminding him to transfer all security codes to Central Storage, in the event of an Inversion or something worse. The note flashed a brilliant pink, fading to blue, then flashing pink once more.

As usual, he tagged it with a wandless muting spell. Division regulations were important, but … respected more than obeyed.

Crinkling paper unfolded in his hands. "Let's see. What do I have here?"

The paper folded outwards, actual _paper_ rather than parchment. That meant the message was from himself, to himself. Messages meant for other wizards were on the more magic-friendly parchment.

_Me,  
Ignore the Non-Interference Clause tonight. Time Chamber, then Death Chamber. Vee to the Prophecy airheads; fate is what you make of it._

_ P.S. I hate me._

Karl let the page fall. It disintegrated before reaching the floor. He paid it no mind. The entire situation had changed; that report on the strange man in a telephone booth would have to wait.


	2. The Premise

Karl studied the pages of his map. It had been inspired by the rumored possession of an upperclassmen during his years at Hogwarts, a construct that charted personnel's geography in real-time. Said student – or more likely _students _– had graduated some years before his enrollment, but records were held sacrosanct in Ravenclaw Tower. Such mysteries were made to be marveled at, or solved by the right mind; creating such an artifact had tickled his fancy. The Department of Mysteries was by nature a place difficult to examine and it had only been through the outright abuse of temporal magics that the bare minimum had been possible. Illegal beyond belief, but possible.

He scrawled a quick copy of the paper given to himself by himself, and took a large red permanent ink marker, drawing a lemniscate symbol over the note's lower portion. That was then deposited in his safe, the interior suspended above the ground via aluminum pillars, engraved with runes of concealment and power, waste energy fed to the top surface for further efficiency. The fact that the safe's top became a perfect setting for a coffee maker was beside the point. Not everyone could afford a House Elf after all. No one mentioned how the elven folk would go mad just looking into his room, let alone function – something to do with how they perceived magic.

The kettle, runic-enforced stasis deactivating at his entrance, gave a shrill whistle.

Karl jumped, then grumbled at himself. The Alarm Charm had to be adjusted. He'd see to it himself after the next shift. As always.

Dark steaming liquid poured from the clear glass container into a flask. A mild expansion charm ensured the full pot was emptied into its depths, and he'd do it again before leaving. A coffeemaker that did not fill itself was a bother, how did muggles put up with it? He'd seen mundane devices that could do everything from activate lights and open doors, analogues that existed in the magical world; why not an auto-refill coffee pot?

"So then." Karl pulled a notepad from the wall patch, talking out loud. "A time twist. Throw a rum-roll in the wrapper as well, or is that too esoteric?"

The mirror hanging over the sink cleared its throat. _'Speaking to yourself is a sign of madness, you know.'_

He waved it off. "Since I enchanted _you_, and _you _are talking to _me_, that makes you just as mad, no?"

The reflective surface pondered his logic, giving every evidence of maintaining proper decorum. _'Point.'_

He returned to the paper. The trick to guiding one's self through a successful time reversion involved code words, pre-set plans, and a great willingness to confront oblivion at close range. There was a reason most members of the Time department were only children – although a good argument could be made for having large families. Connections and trusted allies were invaluable; indeed, an agent of enough family members could see an efficiency increase of exponential proportions. Having a trusted brother in place to carry messages instead of looping back a few hours and carrying it yourself meant far less Turned Time, which reduced costs again.

A pity he'd been an only child.

Carefully he made a more careful copy of the note from before, working to make its every line identical. Once finished, he added the appropriate security precautions, and folded it into a tiny package. There. One less thing to do when the right _time_ came. A wince jerked against his features against the inadvertent pun. "That wasn't in the brochure," he muttered. "Work here long enough, grow a hatred for time-related puns."

The mirror remained silent.

"What to bring, what to bring …" he shook his head. "Expansion Charm. Just bring everything."

That would work long-term, but short-term combat required a bit more planning. Opening a bag and summoning the required ingredient or tool took time, and delays made one dead.

"Wait, why fighting?" he stopped to think. "Could be a surprise birthday party. Bring balloons, maybe some dip."

The mirror snickered. _'You know yourself better than that.'_

Karl groaned. "Arg. _Fine._"

* * *

Small bottles on the upper shelves on one wall caught his attention for a moment. Ships-in-a-bottle were a hobby, perfect for a man like him. Patience and detailed work meshed efforts well, a success that showed itself in progression, more intricate models in ever-larger bottles. His latest work sat on the nearest end, a three mast schooner rocking in the liquid layer as the live kraken played with its hull. Tiny tentacles wrapped their sucker-lined length around the ship's hull, breaking spars at infrequent basis, only for the wood to repair itself a few seconds later.

Sometimes Karl wondered what muggle artisans added to their nautical creations. Shellfish perhaps, or ubiquitous copepods? An arboretum analog would seem logical. But he returned his attention back to the issue on hand: the message.

The problem inherent within vague messages lay in the underlying principle: indefinite information. Karl _knew _that there would be a problem. He even knew roughly where and when. But there was a great gulf differentiating between a seven o'clock attack and five-thirty. Therefore he must have been in a great hurry, or making a deliberate effort to hide specifics. There were causation wards keyed to particular phrases, especially around the Hall of Prophecy … ah. _The Hall_.

Karl stilled. _'Of course.'_

Now he knew a little more. But the lack of a starting time complicated matters. Best to begin with the basics.

For several long minutes, Karl wrestled with his conscience. Should he part with a fraction of his precious _felicis _reserve? In all honesty, he didn't want to – excess complications sent variables sliding down the chaotic causeway, like beads on a Mobius strip; Liquid Luck threw more weight on such changes than almost any other asset. Yet if he did _not_ take it, the simplest problem might foil every move he made. Causality cared little for such niggling issues like addiction and temporal boondoggle.

With a shrug, he carefully entered the safe's security system, calculating the password before adding them into the numeric sequence. He'd seen muggle safe limitations; they were clever through necessity, but magic offered better options.

Once the enchantments had tested his authenticity, the door opened. Karl paused, gazing upon its contents. A tiny row of golden vials rested on the top shelf, socketed in individual holders. Below lay implements too sensitive for leaving out and about, even in the confines of his personal quarters. A pity Expansion charms rendered their effectiveness negligible. Thinking one more time, he gave a sigh, and left the Liquid Luck containers alone, taking his personal Time Turner out from below.

'_Off so early?'_ M.I.R.R.O.R. called.

"Aye," he gave a shrug, wishing for a moment that budgets allowed for invisibility cloaks. "Better get in position. You know the Three rules."

The mirror sighed. '_Don't move too early, don't move too early, and don't move too early.'_ The object muttered a few additional choice terms under its breath. "_You do realize that you're moving too early right now?_"

Karl raised his hand, using one of the few wandless spells he knew. Silent as a taciturn ghost, the robes flew off the hook and into his hand. A heartbeat later, and the masking enchantments activated once more, transforming Karl Timonssen became an Unspeakable once more. "You're assuming that _now _is too early?"

The door closed behind before the mirror had a chance to answer.

* * *

The main hall proved a faster route than the backways known to the Unspeakable Division. Variables included a very distinct respect for space and a lack of eye-contact, but considering the alternatives, benefits nonetheless. He could incorporate them into his calculations.

Whether it was due to the warning, or his innate paranoia, Karl felt something … off. What precisely it was, he didn't know.

Pulling to a stop in a convenient alcove, just beside a candelabra wall-set, Karl began to run down a mental checklist.

_First: have you been seen?_

Not by anyone of consequence.

_Second: Do you know of anything happening, for certain?_

That was … more difficult. If taken literally, the Second Rule made amnesiac or Oblivated individuals the perfect time operators. So long as they did not _know _what happened, they could theoretically accomplish the impossible. Grindlewald would have never risen to power, the Titanic could have been saved, and the Lesser Po-wee would have never gone extinct. Again. Keeping that mentally deficient species extant took more hard work than getting a ghost to change its mind.

For the sake of argument, he would assume the message sent from himself to himself rendered the rule unbroken.

Onward he progressed through the list, skipping the fourth until actually having personally _turned _time, until reaching the eighth.

_Are there any elephants?_

The answer was obvious: no elephants were present in any form – even ivory derived from their dental extrusions was forbidden. Any Unspeakable worth his salt – an interesting Latin-based phrase – knew better than to engage in chrono-based magics in the presence of pachyderms. The Lobby held ancient precautions dedicated to the deterrent of elephants and their kindred. Safety first of course, but held to a certain extent. Paranoia aided only so much.

Grunting to himself, Karl abandoned the rest of the list. Time cost galleons after all.

Moving again, he sidestepped an attractive blonde veela, noting with amusement how the male half of the gathered population seemed to both open a passage before her while simultaneously closing in on all sides. The robes she wore failed to conceal her beauty, which seemed to attract far more attention than merited in his estimation. The famed Allure, perhaps? He'd have loved to perform an experiment or two, but the legendary tempers of the half-fae dovetailed with their ability to conjure a mild version of _fiendfyre_. What currently rankled though, was the inability to source his current sense of irritation: was he disgusted by the blatant stares due to chivalry, or was her Allure affecting him? But there would be no time for experiments. A pity.

Karl chose to err on the side of caution by 'accidentally' stepping on a large man's foot. The ensorcelled dragon-hide boots crushing weight was more than enough to ensure the drooling man's distraction. Screaming like a girl and falling to the floor in a disorganized pile seemed highly effective.

He followed up the motion with a disdainful scowl, shoving past another pair of large men; not that anyone could see his features. It did help make for convincing body language.

"Excuse me, pardon me," he brushed past the next group of witches, busily gossiping amongst themselves while pointing-but-not-really-pointing at the veela and her surrounding audience. Two started to automatically track him, but shifted away as soon as his shadowed face became – for lack of a better term – visible. The veela seemed a touch happier at the distraction, taking advantage of it by pushing her way as rapidly as possible through the crowd. At some point he thought she glanced his way, but dismissed the thought.

Gradually, the crowd thickened, the closer he came to the public Floos. Business hours were approaching their peak outside the Ministry. Prime time for a properly trained individual to become one with the crowd.

His charcoal-black robes swirled at each step though, drawing unnecessary attention. He heard light, quick footsteps in his wake, taking advantage of the path his forbidding stature caused.

They continued, clicking on the smooth marble blocks upon which the Ministry building was built, until he reached a transit hall. Turning, he caught the veela out of the corner of one eye, who paused, nodding in thanks, before continuing.

"_Polite, anyway."_ He allowed. Then another thought struck, followed by forgotten data points. _"Delacour. French. Triwizard champion, daughter of ministry workers, old nobility; some French custom. What is _she_ doing here?"_

Stepping deeper into the hall he slowed, as if deep in thought, drifting to the nearest wall; Fleur Delacour had been involved with the last few minutes of terror in the Triwizard Cup, the results compiling in a dead Champion and thousands of rumors. Strange rumblings emanated from that time-stamp; one of the warning Bells had resonated, indicating a high-powered Death Magic ritual being performed. At the same time, multiple breaches had appeared in the Archives, revealing holes in security that had not existed for over fifteen years. For two straight months the Department had existed on a razor's edge, poised to act at the slightest hint of intrusion – permission to go beyond the Department borders did not yet exist even now, roughly a year later. A major failing in Karl's mind.

A slow shuffle rotated his field of vision back towards the main entry. Now he searched for something different, known associates of one Albus Dumbledore, an individual who had a standing invitation to the Department of Mysteries. The man was a certified genius of incredible power; such men could perform miracles in research, if so inclined.

Part of the downside of including such erudite men of power lay in the followers they attracted. In theory, intelligence attracted those able to understand brilliance. But in practice …? Dumbledore, although brilliant, possessed an additional reputation for eccentricity. He associated with odd folk at the best of times.

"_There."_

The main floor held an observation gallery, nestled over the main entrance. Few noticed it, since the colonnade on its balcony appeared similar to the decorations. It was a practice begun during the Baroque period if he recalled aright; but the major point of interest stood in the form of a large black man, tucked deep in its striated heights.

"_Shacklebolt. Auror, First Class. Non-confirmed associate, definite supporter."_

A crash caught his attention; a young auror with chromatic hair spilled away from a Floo entrance, catching herself before she toppled into the representative of the Holst family. The wizard looked disappointed. An understandable emotion given his ignorance – Karl knew the young woman in question. She was a respectable force of chaos in the orderly realm of law, a frequent partner to the tall black man.

Karl gave a slow nod to himself. Shacklebolt alone held top ratings in his class, multiple awards in marksmanship, field decisions and leadership situations. The name had been raised more than once in the Department, part of the contingency lists made for any myriad reasons. There were contingency plans in place for invasions from beyond the Veil, Necromancy Apocalypse scenarios, plans for when the Minister came on rare occasions, attempting to demonstrate camaraderie – an event that rated equal footing with the Undead shambling around as any office worker would know.

The one problem, though, was that there was always something missing from an emergency plan. The emergency.

What did that make this? Once more he resumed his path down the hallway, thinking.

"_Dumbledore's associates are present. There have been trace signs of watchers in the corridors. Not a problem, every Lord has to have watchers every once in a while. But what if this _isn't _a standard observer? Dumbledore's pulled stunts like this before; that Turkish fiasco, for one."_

One foot froze mid-air. _"Lord Voldemort."_

It all fit.

Potter and Dumbledore claimed that the Dark Lord had returned, at the end of the Triwizard Cup. Permission to investigate had been withheld until two weeks later – more than enough time for a skilled wizard to obscure tracks. Even the most gifted individual would fail to obtain an accurate investigation if someone of Voldemort's caliber were on the opposing side. Tonight, the Department was supposed to be in a form of lockdown … but if Voldemort were involved?

No wonder the note was so vague. He wouldn't have believed it if he hadn't followed the logic trail personally. Some of the recent breaches in Department security resembled samples from the previous Dark Lord Incursion; that sour tang flavored in blood and Death Magic. More than that, it pressed on weak points matching the previous generation's approach – plus additional weaknesses. It was almost as if there had been moles within the Department ever since the last war, learning the upgrades and feeding their particulars to outside parties.

That was a terrifying thought. Karl slowed further, devoting more brain power to the problem.

If such a thing were true, the alleged upcoming lockdown order could be falsified, confirmed by every standard failsafe check. If a mole were placed high enough, he or she could even enact their own policies ... in all likelihood _had _enacted policies. Why else would he require a time loop of himself? No one was as paranoid as the Unspeakables. Triple-redundant fail-safes were considered the work of amateurs; the thought of anyone being capable of penetrating a thousand-year-old layered defense network …? That was a mixed bag of emotion, awe for the dedicated brainpower brought to focus, terror at the implications, and rage. Yes, he could conclude it contained a vast repertoire of potential.

A new sense of purpose hurried his steps. There were many things to accomplish; supplies to get, barriers to create and encode. He was by no means a powerful wizard, but there were more than a few tricks an Unspeakable kept in reserve. Let alone a Time Specialist.

* * *

Once more in the familiar regions of the Unspeakable Department of Mysteries, Karl – no. He must not think of himself as _that _name. Operative U-15, yes.

His route became obvious. Surveillance on the most-trafficked regions in the Ministry would be useless. Watching Diagon Alley would be more profitable, just by observing the people that failed to react to his presence. Here, problems reared their ugly heads in far less simplistic patterns. Hoods and cloaks in the Department were bespelled to forbid observation. Anonymity made for superb improvements to Time Studies, creating shields against the majority of minor mental assaults as well.

Carefully, he checked his pocket watch. A clever predecessor once developed an attachment for it, routing short messages from higher up. In brief, planes or owls would drop messages on a complex rune arrangement, which transferred a tiny segment to his watch.

There it was. A general order commanding the evening shift to stay home, and the afternoon shift to leave early. Merlin he hated being right.

Settling down, U-15 devoted himself anew to the task at hand. Who knew better than he of the power of the present?

Dark hoods and cloaks passed through the Doors Chamber in an ordered dance of chaos. Operative U-15 stood at one side, observing. Diverting his normal pattern, his unique badge depicting an hourglass on a spherical field remained absent from his personal identification. In its place rested the ubiquitous crossed quills, denoting an assignment by the Scriveners division. _That _was a strange place, where the occupants spoke of strange things, making charts of foot traffic and door movements, not to calculate occupancy or track monetary flow, but for reasons that made no sense whatsoever.

Operative U-15 furrowed his brow, safe under his hood. What did _In-shure-ants_ have to do with the Unspeakables? All the same, their group made quite a fuss if banned from the general areas – but their interest in private research, the closed-off areas, proved apathetic.

Best of all, they employed no clerks from Temporal Division. That gave him almost complete autonomy.

Disguising his normal body language took no effort at all; every Unspeakable had at least minimal training in that regard. In private Operative U-15 sometimes wondered if he still _had _a personal form of expression; then shook off the thought. Even a Class 12 Memory Wipe failed to eliminate personalities. One Gilderoy Lockhart proved _that _little detail. After events at the Hogwarts school that remained classified, there had been a great deal of interest throughout the Department in the former celebrity's progression. Finding volunteers for a full memory wipe proved difficult after all, every scrap of data was precious.

Maintaining the bored attitude held by all accosted by the Scrivener's division, Operative U-15 continued his watch. Multiple personnel were hurrying into the Thoughts Chamber, more than usual. A brief moment of unprofessional anticipation pumped his heart rate upward a notch, but fell back into the usual doldrums as a careful team returned carrying one of the _skepsivores. _Commonly known as Thought-Eaters, the odd relatives of _schyphozoa_ were typically placid in their tank. Once in a great while, they would attain a great attraction to an operative, bashing their cranial-matter-resembling bodies against unbreakable glass. Several had performed such an action in the past twenty-four hours, one bruising the surprisingly durable material serving as a body.

Treating a jellyfish with a concussion was an order of magnitude easier than treating the same injury on a _skepsivore. _Still, it was a clue. The last time the _skepsivores_ had shown activity was during the Dark Lord War, perhaps a little over a decade prior. Promising.

An hour passed, discernable through a sudden apparent influx of bagged lunches. U-15 made up a game, guessing what was in each – an excellent deduction exercise, if annoying to a man whom had forgotten lunch. That though – that could be worked around. He made a note to himself, reminding a future him to leave a sack lunch in one of the packages necessary later. Delightfully, there happened to be such a storage position available in the nearest break room. Inside rested an … oddity.

_'A … sandwich? Not unusual but – chip butty?'_ an odd looking meal awaited his ministrations. White bread surrounded a conglomeration of meat, butter and a layer of potato, innards liberally saturated in a brown sauce. The stasis writings surrounding the package were not written in his hand either; the lines curved in odd ways and flowed quite unlike his own blocky print. _'Well. Proof that something is going on. Cheers me.'_

It tasted delicious, additional proof of unoriginal origin if any were needed. Meals _he_ prepared tended to be nutritious and rather bland. By comparison, the taste of this unexpected lunch approached that of ambrosia, nectar of the gods from the old texts. '_Perhaps I will be learning new skills?_'

Refreshed, U-15 resumed his station, keeping an ever-closer eye out as the afternoon paced on towards evening. The usual shift change … did not appear.

Normal behavior. _Normal._ Such a thing indicated extremes, differences arriving and departing in numbers large enough to determine an average between values. What was normal to a wizard?

U-15 dropped a casual concealment charm on himself. More workers departed, he was certain of several identities, a number that had worked through the afternoon and evening shifts for years. Why were they leaving? He wasn't such an amateur that he'd release a scan; at most observing their behaviors, and perhaps a little cheating.

His wand dropped out of his sleeve, deftly caught mid-fall. A tiny cantrip, obscure at the very least, made a rebounding approach. Ancient hedge-wizards lacking power had devised a little masterpiece, a spell that gained power from its surroundings – considered illegal by the current administration. He could see why; all it really involved was minor facts, indirect applications that granted the less powerful tiny edges over their neighbors.

One of the Unspeakables stumbled, slapping at the side of his face. His companion giggled – which made U-15 frown. Voice-masks were required by law to be active at all times during active hours in the building even when going off shift.

_That _suggested mind alterations. _Confundus _based charms were an obvious choice, but anything from babbling potions to the _Imperius _held possibilities as well.

He filed that under _To Be Determined_.

More workers left, in solitary, in pairs, sometimes in groups. Socialization outside of work was impossible to forbid. Logic dictated there had to be a way, but enough couples existed to scuttle such plans almost before they began. Personally, Operative U-15 believed there must be a hidden organization within the Mysteries department, focused on deterring social-engineering protocols. He didn't care either way – work was interesting enough to preclude relationships, and the one girl he'd attempted to date during Hogwarts had not taken his academic fervor with the same enthusiasm. A pity – she'd had potential, even with recruitment to the Aurors.

He rubbed his face at the nonexistent mark. To this day he had no idea what he'd said to make her so angry.

Better to focus on magic. At least when Magic bitch-slapped you, there was a discernible cause.

The last straggler emerged, security doors closing with the characteristic boom he so often heard. Behind etched orichalcum alloys, a faint throbbing hum reached his ears, evidence of the circular door system spinning into a random location. Who had come up with _that _particular security feature no one knew, but it was impressive. Imposters became flummoxed at that particular feature, akin to the moat of an ancient fortress – passable, but only through inside knowledge or clever thinking. Normal conditions required three watchers on sentinel duty, but with the lockdown in effect, an _enemy _lockdown?

U-15 decided to avoid thinking about that.

Another hour passed. Above, the sun was sinking in the west. He could tell through the Transition windows left active on the far side. Above the Ministry had closed at five, but there were any number of clerks, secretaries and hangers-on that stayed well past closing time.

As he waited, Operative U-15 pondered his note. Two locations had been mentioned: the Time Chamber, the Death Chamber. Ignoring its grammatical use, including the term 'prophecy' could only mean the Hall of Prophecy.

Confident in the lacking population on the 'working' floor, U-15 accessed the massive door. It slid aside, bringing him into the Door Room.

"Temporal Studies." It needed to be admitted; he liked how his voice boomed in the dim lighting. It lent a sense of _gravitas_ – then he remembered why he was there.

At once the circle of doors spun, whirling first left, then right, sometimes flipping doors while his back was turned. Neophytes only saw a blur; the more advanced members could follow the doorways movements through five separate dimensions, and masters could determine an additional three dimensions employed. He didn't care if the doors stopped existing period, so long as the openings remained accessible.

The chosen portal stopped before the operative, the entire construct creaking to a halt. He tapped the circuit, popping inside and hearing the faint whirl as the massive security device began its dance once more.

He loved the Time Room.

One wall held a collection of devices which should not have existed in his reality. A combination of brilliance, insanity and a critical deficiency in common sense gave rise to crystals immune to changes in standard Chrono-Workings. As always, Operative U-15 paused to admire the collections of extinct species, gamboling within their unbreakable walls. A massive tooth from a reptilian variant that would never arise rested in one such crystal, alongside a large, transparent version the size of his desk that contained the preserved remains of some plant, a seed that would never grow.

They hoped.

His gaze lifted to the dozens of clocks lining the left wall, row over row of timepieces each claiming a different interval, tracking magics that ran on their own schedules. Keeping track was simple, maintaining a record was the hard part.

"First things first," he muttered. "Let's get the essentials." U-15 started with the Cabinet. It stood opposite of the artwork some fool had left in the mundane realm, triggering untold damage until recaptured. In that fools defense, who would have expected a muggle to activate the charm? Da Vinci had caused a great deal of trouble in his time – well before the Statute was enacted, but a headache for every department in most of Magical Europe.

His pocket watch matched identities to the Cabinet. Inside its very purposefully inert frame hung dozens of Time Turners. Tiny objects that spun back less than six hours and larger varieties that could turn back entire days. He was surprised to see even Old Tom, the massive Time-Turner that allegedly took a wizard back years, and was restricted to top-tier operatives. He'd only seen it twice before.

"_What to do, what to do?"_ Now that he was here, the next step became suddenly more convoluted. Time Turners did not store well in enhanced containers, like the Bags of Holding beloved by his people, named by a half-blood who kept giggling whenever the term was used. Enterprising individuals attempted to create realms with their own time, pushing the known boundaries at every effort.

_Attempted _was a key word_._

Most of those experimental locations still existed, but under enough barriers to repel a meteor. Even through those, one could still hear the scritching sounds. All it took was one success and everyone wanted to do it, qualified or not.

No other course available, U-15 opened his cloak and began bundling the adamantine chains in tiny loops. Fasteners inside the fabric served very nicely to keep the chains in place, leaving the hourglass figures to dangle. _"Six on the left, six on the right,"_ he spread the cloth a little wider. _"One around the neck – Model seven-nine-nine-three, plus me. Huh, lucky number."_

Chains clinked, miniscule metal parts tapping against each other. Having so many Time-Turners on his person made Karl – _U-15, _why was he having so much trouble staying in form? – U-15 nervous. The transparent material holding the 'sand' in place would not shatter; it could withstand dragonfire at the least. But each little capsule held enough theoretical yield to obliterate a small city. All of them together? Continents at the least.

U-15 paused to check the log. _"Hmmm. U-12, U-35, U-71 and U-4 all checked in their Time-Turners today. I _know _their proposals included keeping the Turners a full week Un-Turned. More conspiracy? Or accident?"_

The last Time-Turner came into his hands, Old Tom. _That _particular model went on a clasp by his waist, the massive hourglass making an uncomfortable weight on his left hip. A mild sticking charm kept the device from flipping around – no telling _what _kind of chaos could occur if that happened. Golden metal catches kept the smaller models from doing the same thing; whomever had created Old Tom had neglected to add such a safety feature. It must have been an ancient contraption, a relic from ancient times.

"_Heh. Times."_

Another thought struck; he riffled through the inventory pages once again. A critical failing of mind-altering charms lay in the caster's logic. A command given by the caster would be followed to the letter. Skilled wizards could compensate for that to a certain extent, commanding their victims to exercise caution, but that only included what the victim considered threatening. _"Inventory, inventory … I know it's here somewhere … ah. There."_

This time the chill running down his spine took a turn for the Arctic. _"Later. Ramifications later."_

U-15 lurched into action once more. Turners acquired, he shifted to the more easily stored items. They passed into his bag, an unending stream. Temptation clung to the objects; many he'd collected himself over the years, threatening to reminiscence over the course of his career. But there was no question: Time was _not _on his side.


	3. Calculations

Operative U-15's journey back to his office took less time than his first trip down the Department's Sanctum that day. Hallways stood empty, devoid of even standard maintenance crews. A typical evening would see a few carts propelled by the standard blue-robed workers, aiming their cleaning charms in every direction; House Elves could've done the job in a far more efficient manner, but no Wizengamot member would trust them. Loyalty for a house elf was absolute, as the common thought ran, and the tiny race held a certain disregard for boundaries when a mess was sensed.

U-15 was fairly certain the events surrounding one Lord Malfoy and his reduced workforce was not public thought. A house elf moving independent of orders was necessary – a house elf moving against the best interests of its master indicated loss of control. The faintest whisper of such a thing in a Wizengamot member? The wolves would descend before the flesh ceased to breathe.

Back on task, his steps went unheard, a temporary silencing enchantment from his office ensorceling devices applied to everything from his feet to the folds of his robe. Without them, he wouldn't have noticed the faint susurration coming from above, deep in the Ministry's hallowed walls. _'Elevator's charm-rails need updating,' _he took cover in an alcove, casting a partial transfiguration on the outer covering of his robes. Half a second from finishing the spell he broke it off.

'_Casting magic on Time-Turners? What are you, a Neophyte?'_

The elevator dinged, its enchanted voice announcing to everyone inside what floor they were now on.

"Yeah, yeah. I know where I am. Open the soddin' door!"

A less musical tone emanated from the widening gap. Dark robes, similar in hue to his own but far showier, swished out in arrogant strides. Half a dozen men – obvious to any observer of humanity – exited before taking a left turn, on a direct path to the Department of Mysteries. Light glinted off silver-white masks: Death Eaters.

Operative U-15 obeyed the ancient directive engrained in the lizard portion of every mind, and froze.

Seconds later another elevator's golden doors opened, releasing more dark-robed figures. This group seemed of similar quantity, but included one – could it be? – U-15 hesitated. Azkaban's breakout had been publicly blamed on Sirius Black, but if Voldemort were alive again, there would be one follower above all he'd desire return to his service. Given the relationship between the insane former Black and the known friend of the Potters, he doubted the breakout rested in the escapee's hands.

The woman cackled, twirling widdershins on the polished stone. She wore torn clothing, although that looked like a personal choice given the high-heeled shoes. "I am BAAAACKKK! Did you miss me?"

"Bella, please concentrate," Another Death Eater, voice unrecognizable through the concealment suite in the mask intoned. Its silky diction left no doubt about its upbringing. "We have a task."

U-15 ground his teeth. That charm obscuring the speaker's voice was an Unspeakable specialty. Rookwood had much for which to answer.

Bellatrix Lestrange just laughed again, a higher-pitch than before. Then one of the robed figures fired a brief viridian green spell, knocking her off her feet. "Bella. Get going."

The woman sprawled, glaring at the spellcaster. "I'll remember _that _for later, Rodolphus."

"Whatever." The masked man strode on.

U-15 couldn't see any sign of nervousness amongst the group. They acted as if they owned the building, disregarding everything potentially being a threat. Granted that was an attitude held by most visitors to the Ministry – barring a few passing through _en route_ to judgement – but none had access during a lockdown. Nervousness was only to be expected for illegal ventures. Death Eaters lacking fear meant senior members, experienced veterans that remembered the Dark Lord War. Not every Death Eater had been caught.

Operative U-15 remained frozen until the last footsteps faded. Then he hurried, hearing the sound of another elevator arriving behind. And another. And another.

* * *

Returning to his office took _much _less time than the downward journey, adrenaline lending energy beyond the best Wide-Eye stimulant. He keyed in access faster than ever before, practically hurling himself inside when the door opened. Taking his hood down reverted the charms concealing his identity. He sighed in relief, relaxing the rigid Operative attitude. It was good to be Karl once more.

Sounds coming from within halted his progress in a burst of paranoia. Karl's wand stabbed downward, executing the tiny sideways twitch of a sub-lethal penetration curse. A familiar voice interrupted.

"It's you. Acknowledge my lack of wit."

Karl's shoulders slumped. "You have _got _to be kidding me."

"'Fraid not."

Karl heaved a sigh that came from his toes. "Grindelwald Gambit? Please tell me it's not a Grindelwald Gambit."

The figure, who was taking just as much care as himself to avoid looking directly at each other, grunted. "Better. It's a Carmichael's Inversion setup, mixed with a little Sisal Fandango. Better than an Eldritch King."

Knowing himself as well as he did, this was no joke. Karl still sighed. "Why am I wishing for Time Demons?"

A muffled gasp erupted from across the room. Karl whipped in that direction, wand raised, only to see nothing visible presenting itself. He frowned, looking at the underlying patterns. Even the best concealment spell fractured over geometric shapes. Nature existed in blobs and whorls; man created straight lines and clean-cut corners. And several of the countertop's straight edges were reflecting the light in odd angles. All he could do was close his eyes. "Jotunheim on fire. You brought _people _here? In _my _sanctum? The cleanup will soak through the rest of this year's budget!"

"Not much choice. You'll understand. Can't break Continuity can we?"

Karl opened his mouth, then closed it. There was no point. Instead he turned to the hooks next to the door and began hanging up the Time-Turners. "Death Eaters entered the mezzanine less than ten minutes ago, headed down and over. Two Lestranges and at least two others from the old times. Blades, please?"

There was a pause, and then the noise of oiled metal met his ears. "A brace of throwing daggers, and the _colichemarde_ I think. I have everything else."

Muffled chuckles emanated from his future self's direction. He ignored himself – a thought as unexpected as one would think – and waited until the metal objects floated within reach. The knife sets' straps fit snugly, one sheathe upon his left bicep, the other secured to the thigh on the same side. Likewise, the short dueling blade fit along his right thigh, its somewhat longer scabbard aligned to movement. A rune setup for some kind of shrinking property was possible; however, combining too many rune sets lead to terrifying results. He'd deal with the weight, sensing the balance came far easier when inertia still held sway.

"Wish me luck."

"Ha," his future-self chuckled again. "Don't need it. I'm just that good."

Karl laughed, a good honest bit of levity before facing whatever uncertainties came ahead. Then the hood came up, transforming the young man back into Operative U-15. Just before he palmed the blood-ward exit, he paused. "By the way, whoever made that sandwich? It was good. Better than what I can cook."

Before anyone could answer his palm slid along the runeset and the powerful enchantments thrust him out the door.

* * *

Armed in a fashion applicable to the situation made Operative U-15 walk with confidence. Granted he could hold his own in most situations, but a dozen Death Eaters, with no backup, and Merlin knew how many cannon fodder troops standing before said Death Eaters? The best tactic would be to go silent, watch, and then take action on his next time loop.

'_Devil's Double,'_ he thought to himself. _'I want to strangle whomever came up with that name.'_

It wasn't an altogether inappropriate descriptor. Seeing one's self caused mental distress in thirty percent of the cases he'd read. An additional ten percent preceded freak accidents, the 'accidental magic' randomness, but as if powered by a sullen demigod.

Then there were the rumors that could never be confirmed. No recorded evidence demonstrated how an individual could cancel his own existence – which either proved such a thing impossible, or proved how efficient such a process could be. While the department as a whole demanded evidence for almost everything, this was one subject most were willing to accept on faith. Strangely, there were no Unspeakables demanding proof in any strenuous way since the foundation of their department.

Operative U-15 ignored the direction such thoughts took him. Temporal specialists were good at ignoring things. And he'd reached the Main Hall once more.

Taking a deep breath he grasped a seam of his cloak. The rune cluster woven in demiguise hair accepted the trickle of power sent through his fingertips. It flowed across similar hairs interwoven throughout the outer robes, an efficient double-hexagon pattern using minimum thread with optimal coverage. While not maintaining the same silencing capacity as his previous robe, it granted better coverage and invisibility.

Satisfied, Operative U-15 reached into his bag, pulling out moleskin adhesives. Transfiguration or simple Charms work could soften the soles or eliminate sound altogether, but that cost power he might need at any moment. Behemoths like Dumbledore or the Lestranges could whip spells around as cheap as the empty rounds fired in American movies, but people such as _he_ had to make each spell count.

Faint echoes snapped his attention forwards. Movement suggested further invaders.

Ears pricked, U-15 glided across the dark marble floor. Some thought the coloration hinted at Dark Magic – practical logic dictated otherwise. For the purposes of warding, darker marble existed in a slightly more dense form, although arguments competed over density and organization; but the discussion remained clear. Dark marble held magic longer than lighter varieties. If only a few ward-stones were placed, color mattered little. But when designing a massive center of government, every little bit helped. Due to the black marble alone the Department of Mysteries held exponentially more powerful protections than a white marble construct of comparable size.

U-15 found a Department sigil. Extending one hand he tapped into the ward network, not quite connecting himself in the normal method, but hovering his senses above its complicated pathways.

His eyes widened, shocked.

'_That conniving, thieving unsanitary cobble-pated –'_ He shook himself. This was no time to fall apart. There would be plenty of time later. _'Get to work.'_

Activity hummed throughout the deeper halls. Despite the supposed shutdown, U-15 observed figures in dark robes and light masks traversing pathways known only to Unspeakables – an Azkaban-worthy crime.

The Time Room, once summoned and observed through a surveillance opening, held three Death Eaters, searching cabinets. U-15 ensured his silence remained intact, committing every detail to memory, before moving on. Or almost.

Right in front of his irritated eyes, one of the Death Eaters dropped a priceless artifact, then laughed as it rebuilt itself. He turned to one of the other masked individuals. "Oy, take a leak. It's some kind 'o … ah … thingy!"

U-15 cringed, leaving the room alone before the uncouth man further sullied the English Language. Or the Orb of Returning. He half-hoped the man would cut himself on something during the next breakage, sending him back to wherever he came from in speedy order. _'Not a bad idea. Have to remember that.'_

Further investigation revealed even more sacrilege. The Universal Room currently held an exact model of the Solar System, a study in sympathetic properties if he recalled the memo aright. It also retained a single Death Eater, a studious one this time, who took notes and used Divination-base charms, linked to Astronomical phenomena if he interpreted the dark-cloaked figure's motions. A glance in the General Research wing showed over a dozen Death Eaters, each pulling texts out of drawers, prototypes off shelves. They were breaking secure holding containers as if no possible danger could harm them.

U-15 felt a little better when someone popped open a safety seal, releasing Subject: Tentacle Indigo Monster – better known as T.I.M. to the general non-public – into general chaos. It was small, but had potential, hence its stasis.

A full circuit gave the same information. All over the Department Death Eaters looted. Their presence alone caused irreparable harm to experiments running since their great-grandfathers fathers were children. Tallying brute force removal from hard-wired emplacements into the equation? Incalculable damage. Some of the enchantments were created by long-dead Unspeakables, lost so long ago that no one recalled the precise repair protocols. Their continued usage spoke to the quality of workmanship involved, if not the later generations' ingenuity.

He took another sweep through the darker regions, and noticed an open door. The Room of Prophecy was not quite shut, hanging open just enough to let a line of mirror-silver colored light escape.

'_That's not right …'_ the incongruity of the situation presented itself before his mind's eye. _'Granted. Death Eaters in every room, and the Prophecies are going to be left alone?'_

He thought about that. _'Well, yes. Useless, can't touch the orbs. Workbooks maybe? Research?'_

Operative U-15 started to approach the room, but changed his mind last-minute. _'Divination is useless for the most part – but forcing interaction between Time and Divination magics? Bad idea. Baaad idea.'_

More footsteps caught his attention. Swift footsteps, hard soled shoes, carrying their owner in confident strides. By the sound only one man approached; perhaps six feet tall by the duration of contact between heel and floor. An infrequent tap indicated a walking stick, ornamental since no syncopation could be heard between footsteps. Ex-Auror Moody exemplified that; Unspeakables left the paranoid man alone, but his heavy off-rhythm footfalls were infamous throughout the Ministry.

U-15 glided aside, velvet foot-coverings moving softer than a kneazle's paws. He could see silver hair glinting under the walls weak flames. _'Lord Malfoy?'_

The severe man paused outside a workhouse door, snapping orders inside. After a heated exchange, a wand appeared in the wizard's hand, snapping off a golden-hued starburst. Agonized screams echoed from the chamber, dying as a muffling charm slid into place; Malfoy pushed through the field, wand still aimed at the unfortunate individual garnering his attention. The magic fell a moment later, in time for the aristocrat's last words float to U-15's ears. "… will be indisposed until exfiltration. If anything _else_ goes wrong, contact Rookwood. Fail, and nothing I may do will save you from the wrath of our Lord. Understood?"

Fearful agreements burbled out, but U-15 couldn't make them out. It apparently satisfied Malfoy, for he spun on one heel, emberwood cane rapping against the floor once more. He strode past U-15's hiding place and entered the Room of Prophecy, slamming the door to.

U-15 remained motionless, eyes shut. Lords of the Ancient Families knew magics hidden from the world at large. No one faulted them for it, aside from frustrated politicians and researchers. It gave them a serious advantage, well-earned in many opinions.

Right now that advantage could be deadly. Keeping his motions hidden beneath his cloak, U-15 managed to touch the Dispel cluster, removing possible surveillance spells from the immediate vicinity.

Unfortunately that meant his own concealment failed at the same time – leaving U-15 visible in a long hall. Another set of footsteps approached, spurring his movement into the shadows of a large plinth. This time however he reviewed the past actions of the evening; it was clear the Death Eaters would clean out his Department. He was of two minds; his service in the Department had not exactly been wholly voluntary, but his job was fulfilling. Defending the Department's work rankled, but allowing Death Eaters free access to knowledge they'd lacked during the last war?

'_Better start cleanup.'_

Decision made, he began preparations. Rather than deplete another burst of power on invisibility, U-15 edged himself into an advantageous position, wand in one hand, throwing knife in the other.

A short man shuffled into view. U-15 waited two heartbeats, watching for distortions, telltale signs of temporal instability. Seeing none his hand flickered into sight, just visible in the torch light. The knife made a perfect arc, landing in the Death Eater's throat just above the vocal cords. _Manual Silencer_ a colleague had once called it.

U-15 followed up the knife with a quick draw-and-lunge, the longer _colichemarde_ penetrating through double layers of reinforced dragonhide. He was careful to avoid damaging the robe, half luck and half skill in his estimation.

The Death Eater had just enough time to let out a rasping gasp before the length of treated steel complimented the cold iron's impact. U-15 waited several heartbeats, listening. Then he started to feel the hairs on the back of his neck rise. A faint scent of ozone began to grow, its tangy flavor permeating his nasal passages.

He could take a hint. Operative U-15 grabbed a handful of robe, dragging the literal deadweight back into cover. Sparks skittered from the white mask as it touched his own dark robes, hostile magic defeated by its defensive properties. The robe itself appeared to be clean – U-15 worked quickly to shift the heavy material off the body's cooling shoulders.

A faint crackle grew louder, ozone tang strengthening into an iron scent. Time magic; blood magic would have a sickly-sweet scent mixed with the smell of iron. Ozone hinted of fractured dimensions, the crack between worlds visible in a flash of lightning.

U-15 flung the Death Eater's robe over himself. Its edges dangled by his shins, and there was no mask. Death Eaters took extreme care with the hidden aspects of their identities; even the entry-level thugs typically added contact poisons if the wrong individual touched it. U-15 grabbed the dead Death Eater's foot and stuffed its connecting body into the corner as best as he could. Re-activating the demiguise concealment feature, he crouched over the body, covering its bulk with the edges of his robe.

Further down the hall one of the looters suddenly let out a keening scream, ululating into ranges U-15 believed would trouble bats. It was followed by a wet crunching noise, and a low baying. Spellfire erupted from the Experimental Creatures laboratory, along with what sounded like cackling goldfish – once heard, never forgotten.

'_Idiots.'_ He moved at a run, leaving the body behind. _'What part of 'Do Not Touch' was difficult to understand?_

* * *

[fifteen minutes, thirty seconds]

U-15 took his companion's cue, whirling a silver disc into the Death Eater's flank. Impotent but flashy, the blade distracted the Death Eater enough to draw his attention away from the sly, colorless spell that caught the exposed flesh under the mask.

"Good one!" her voice shouted in excitement.

He scooped up the fallen knife at a run, trading blade for wand. The next opponent had backup.

[thirty minutes, twelve seconds]

French cursing exploded with interdimensional fire, burning through Death Eater robes. The man inside the garments screamed, turning a spray of water on himself to no avail. _Fiendfyre_ was a poor imitation of the original _fire-of-scorn_, more powerful perhaps, but inferior in both intelligence and potency. Both variations possessed instinctive nature to devour items of magical nature. U-15, with his Time-Turners, made sure to stay as far away as possible. There were no recorded incidents between Veela-Fire and Time-Turners, but this was no time to experiment.

The researcher inside felt ill at the rejection.

[one hour, five minutes, thirty-two seconds]

U-15 First and U-15 Second had everything timed to the last heartbeat. The First – his current iteration – flowed with the fight, deflecting a poor shot with the flat of his blade, and sent a low-powered acid onto their opponent's mask. It dripped into the eye-holes, proving his inferior status in the Death Eater circles. Contact with organic tissue strengthened the acid into a lower ranking, issuing smoke out the darkened sockets.

The pair split apart as high-powered Devastation-class hexes punctured the air. His Second incarnation flung a throwing dagger, while First let loose with an oil slick. An obscured figure ignited the oil with a twirl of her wand, adding fuel to the fire with a conjuring twist. In an instant the oil was Transfigured into a lethal puddle of sulfurous compounds, sending a choking miasma into the air while burning the Death Eater's lower robes – its enchantments resisted, but the deadly smoke clung to his body like a cloying fog of death.

U-15 dove away from the smoke, cursing under his breath. Artificial creations? Adding Transfigured flammables to the mix was genius, but dangerous. What clumsy idiot would do such a thing? He just wanted this fight to be over.

* * *

Two hours later, U-15 dragged his tired body towards the main hall, up the sloping corridor that led to the elevators. His cloak looked torn, as if a toddler with idiotic parents and access to a chainsaw had decided to try his hand at stump carving. Every step was marked by a slight dragging sound, the right heel of the nigh indestructible boots hanging by a thread; his most powerful repair charm bounced off the dragonhide like the Death Eater looters off the Lesser Blood-Wylding half an hour prior.

'_If I never see another Death Eater, it will be too soon.' _U-15 stopped. There was something inherently wrong with that statement. He slapped his face, twice. Then a third time, for that iteration of himself he'd seen appearing late in the battle. _'Bugger. Death Eaters in the Prophecy Room. Bugger.'_

In one direction lay the route to his sanctum sanctorum, wherein resided his cooling unit, new clothes, and enough Wide-Eye Mints potions to energize the entire Bulgarian mascot squad for a month.

In the other direction sat a dozen eviscerated Death Eaters, a bare-minimum warding scheme keeping an Elder Eldritch Horror in check, and the elite combat unit loyal to Lord Voldemort in one of the most sensitive places known to wizarding kind. Bellatrix alone was known for wiping out Hit Auror teams with extreme prejudice, when in a good mood. Complemented by the renowned Malfoy mind magics and whichever Lestrange accompanied them turned a hopeless mission into suicide.

Yet the thought of Lord Voldemort gaining control of the Prophecy room? The Divination knowledge sequestered inside, hidden away from masses proven untrustworthy of it?

Dully Operative U-15 turned, limping towards the Prophecy Room. His contract required it, but more importantly, _he _required it of himself. Dislike of the Unspeakable political structure or no, things remained hidden should stay that way, even if it cost him his life.

Then a sudden thought struck. Did he have to do it … _now_?

'_What am I, some neophyte? Temporal Division! Next I'll be forgetting I can use magic.'_

He spun a rapid about-face, quick-marching to the elevators. This time he rushed back as fast as he could, ignoring the utter silence.

The door slammed open, correctly reading his urgency. Unlike the previous time, no one greeted his arrival, nor betrayed their presence. Karl flung back his hood – what was left of it – hurling himself into preparations. No trace of fatigue was visible now, adrenaline pushing his efforts faster, _faster. _Running out of time was an impossibility, but the surfeit might become too much if he weren't careful.

"Mirror. Calculations."

The reflective surface shimmered. _'Ready as always.'_

He selected the larger Time-Turners from where they hung, checking their sand reservoirs. "Begin analysis for time-skip: Target is one week ago today, plus one hour fifteen minutes. Negate Unspeakable observations and Auror presence. Chart my location throughout the week. Comply."

A quill rose into the air, settling in place over a sheaf of parchment. Its ink-dipped nub scratched away at the surface.

Satisfied, Karl stripped out of his torn robes. The Bag of Holding – named by a self-proclaimed wag in the Media division – remained intact, but stitches were coming undone. His throwing knives were destroyed, and the longer sword had no tip. He tossed them into a bin to repair later, continuing his change.

Parchment drifted into his field of view, presenting a long string of equations. "Is this the final calculation or baseline?"

'_Insufficient data,'_ the mirror responded. _'Determining factors require an individual to finalize the locked stream coefficient. Without it you could end up in a secondary chronal-slip, or playing host to a Gibbler infestation.'_

"Damn." Karl thought to himself. "Begin new search: identify magical folk known to oppose Lord Voldemort. Prioritize those with known association to Albus Dumbledore. Make combat skill a secondary priority, and independent operative capacity as tertiary. Calculate."

Flashing lights spun across the reflective pane additional rune etchings glowing to life in its frame. Karl stopped to watch, surprised at the amount of power flowing through the artifact. The light grew brighter, before flaring a strobe-effect, blinding Karl for a moment. Emergency backups activated, spraying a cooling stream of liquid gases at the mirror's edges, enchantments preventing the streams from touching the fragile glass surface.

"Mirror. Status." He didn't worry about the inanimate object – he'd made most of the modifications himself, and could do so again. Still it would take much time, and he didn't want to waste it no matter how much he had. "Mirror?"

Its design rested on many things, but his favorite aspect was its acronym. Saying it over and over again though … might not be good. "Magical Intelligence: Runic Ratiocination Operations Rectifier. Respond."

A faint buzz responded, stopping and starting once more. Gradually, like a distant voice in the end of a tunnel, the voice he'd grown accustomed to hearing resumed. _'… event miscal-cal-cal-cal-calcu-calculation … redo from …. Repeat: Error. Error. Temporal readiness not resolved due to non-probable event miscalculation. Redo from entrance point. Repeat: Err—"_

"Understood. Stop calculation." Karl wiped a hand across his face, brushing condensed humidity away. "Readiness status? Basics only, please."

The liquefied gas shut down. He'd need to check if the flooring was undamaged later. _'Intelligence quotient undamaged. Main power undamaged. Flux capacitor damaged. Internal core damaged. Repairs in progress."_

Karl sighed. "New calculation: known associates of Karl Timonssen, locations in previous requests time frame. Add condition: oppose Lord Voldemort. Add priority: independent. Calculate."

This time the mirror barely flickered. _'Three individuals available. Ex-Auror Moody, Auror Tonks, and Operative CleanSweepOne.'_

"Choices overwhelm me," Karl muttered under his breath, then froze. "Mirror: repeat."

'_Three individuals available: Ex-Auror Moody, Auror Tonks, and Operative CleanSweepOne.'_

His left eye began to twitch. "Really. Accuracy rating?"

A faint gleam responded. _'Accuracy rating at one-hundred and twelve percent. Warning: Temporal Directive in effect. Do you wish to file a report?'_

"Cancel," Karl bit out. "No. Cancel. No filing."

'_Understood. Standing by."_

Karl found a new pair of pants, hesitating. "Mirror, Query: How likely is it that Ex-Auror Moody will comply with a Rastafan Condition?"

The mirror pulsed a slow silver. _'That question cannot be answered as phrased. Please try again."_

"Great," Karl drew in a deep breath and tried again. "Based on recorded reactions to unexpected phenomena, what is the probability that Ex-Auror Moody will volunteer assistance without initiating hostilities?"

'_One moment. Processing.'_ The mirror's rune array adjusted themselves. _'Ex-Auror Moody is calculated to have a ninety-seven percent chance of hostile reaction to conditions as described. There is a two point nine likelihood of compliance, and a point zero one probability of waiting for conversation.'_

"Bugger," Karl muttered again. "Mirror: new variable. What if Ex-Auror Moody were given evidence of Death Eater infiltration? Calculate likelihood of compliance."

This time the mirror responded almost immediately. _'Compliance likelihood seventy-seven point three nine percent. There is a thirty point one percent likelihood he will engage hostilities.'_

"What about Operative Cleansweep, given the same conditions?" Karl asked. He had a washcloth now, scrubbing at the battle-grime accumulations on his face.

'_Operative CleanSweepOne has a ninety-nine point nine-nine-nine percent chance of complying. Warning: Operative CleanSweepOne is currently on probation for non-standard protocols.'_

Karl let the washcloth fall to the ground. "And … Auror Tonks?"

The mirror hummed a little. _'Auror Tonks has an eighty-eight point zero three percent chance of compliance, with a twenty-two point zero seven percent chance of engaging hostilities.'_

Karl sagged to a chair, letting his head bang into the wall. Tonks. It just _had _to be Tonks. One of the few people that knew him, and apparently loathed him.

He lifted one hand, concentrating. The digits shifted, from a slim duelers grip to the fat-fingered paw any wrestler would desire. It took time, and a great deal of concentration, but it was there. One possible source for his lack of power … and steady appearance. So many questions, so few answers. But there was one way to get at least a few, and hopefully assistance with the firefight down in the basement. But … why _Nymphadora 'Don't-Call-Me-Nymphadora' Bloody Tonks?_

* * *

_Note: M.I.R.R.O.R. name suggestion from Miss Leader_


	4. Jump

The Ritual Room deserved both of its capitalized letters. Every Unspeakable had access to one, most constructed a personal chamber of their own for the enhanced power such commitment gave. Rituals often revealed the hidden inner secrets one would wished hidden, or backlash in the presence of unsuitable conditions. Thoughts alone could betray the intended purpose of a Ritual, as Karl could remember in the example case of Unspeakable C-142. Her intended goal was to gain the agility and keen senses of a cat; the presence of a well-meaning friend diverted its purpose into actually turning her _into _a cat. Only prodigious talent in Transfiguration had restored her original form, but the urge to change back into a cat overwhelmed her from time to time.

Karl shook his head. No progress would be made if he kept getting distracted.

'_Ready for the next step?'_ the mirror called.

He walked to the safe, and pulled out another silver ingot. This was pure silver, a metal that would tarnish in minutes if not protected. "I have the silver, the etching is complete."

'_Good. Optimal departure juncture is approaching at T minus fifteen and counting.'_

Groaning to himself Karl let the silver ingot drop into a tray, joining a thin layer of the most valuable substance in his profession: Turner sand. Miniature dragon models breathed fire on the metal, melting it into liquid, the substance of which bubbled in the sand, melting it in turn to create a sheen both brighter than anything else in the universe yet dark enough to absorb all light in its vicinity – much like time itself. With greater care and thick dragonhide gloves, he moved the tray a few feet and tipped its corner into the etching reservoir. From there the liquefied metal flowed throughout the design, hissing as the cooling fluid made contact with the cold stone.

"Amalgam is in the line, what's next?"

The mirror cleared its throat. Karl wondered at that sometimes, while based off his own personality, _he _didn't need to gather attention like that. On the other hand, he wasn't a mirror either. _'One fresh duck egg, a dram of dragon blood, and powdered alicorn. I believe the dragon's blood needs to be of an older dragon, more than a century if possible.'_

There it was, why Karl hated Rituals. The power they gave was far out of proportion to the materials used, but interpreting the ingredients was of fiendish difficulty. "Not sure about a fresh duck egg. Would boiled quail do?"

'_No, it has to be fresh. Ah, if there is no duck, perhaps goose?'_

"Why would I have _any_ kind of eggs here, fresh or not?"

'_Well don't blame me if your legs succeed in a corporeal class seven time skip and the rest of you wanders around the Napoleonic era. The Ritual requires eggs for a beginning, and dragon's blood for the termination point.'_

Neither suggested conjuring the requested item. Transfiguring a substitute would be just as bad, if not worse. A simple conjuration would make an item possessing only the caster's magic and intent; Transfiguration gave both of those variables plus whatever random factors the target object struggling to regain its identity dragged into the mix. A fresh egg knew itself, metaphorically speaking, reducing complicating variables to nil. Relatively.

"How about fresh celery. Green beginnings? Or maybe some seeds?"

'_Ridiculous.'_

Karl controlled his temper. The mirror was modeled on his own mental rubrics, similar to paintings but far more expensive. Arguing with himself brought wisdom – and frustration. "Alternative? Wait … in the back of the cooler."

'_Yes?'_

He withdrew his hand, clutching an ovoid object. "Chicken egg, I think. Um, it has something on it, red lettering. A pair of A's …? Someone branded an egg. Are they afraid it'll escape?"

'_Who cares? It's fresh. Put it on the pedestal. Less than twelve minutes now.'_

The tiny plinth shrank, decreasing the egg's own size along with it. Dragon blood, caustic as some acids, poured into an accompanying channel, and the granular bits of alicorn … "Wait. You want me to do _what?_"

'_Dab it all over your body. This _is _a _Mors accersito_ variant remember. A Ritual of Return involves more than a portion of Death magic. Protection is necessary.'_

Karl stared at the powdered horn. "I have traveled much farther into the past. _Much _farther, and multiple times, without the body powder I might add. Why in Merlin's name would I need to do this?" Another thought raced through his mind. "Why use a Ritual at all? Old Tom would get me back just as far with one flip!"

'_I don't know,' _the mirror snarked. A lie. Both knew the reality of the situation. Argument with a source as knowledgeable as himself helped bleed off pressure though. _'Maybe because a certain compromised Department would wonder why an Artifact-grade Turner was being used? Perhaps because this isn't the attuned Temporal Ritual Chamber? The last ritual you did here had nothing to do with time travel. A Ritual is needed, and the paste will protect you from slipping into an alternate timeline. You know that.'_

He stared at the gray substance a few seconds more, finally surrendering with a longsuffering groan. "The things I do for magic. How much and where?"

Time soared past in a flurry of dried, overpriced, and endangered animal body parts. As with most rituals, clothing became an unwelcome option, which itself was a primary reason over ninety percent of Unspeakable personnel acquired special chambers of their own. The thought of communal Rituals had been suggested three times in the past century but died in committee – or suffered premeditated homicide, depending on which wizard was asked.

For a moment, Karl let himself wish and wish _hard _for a different method. Old Tom could've taken him back a week at a single Turning, and a combination effort from the rest of the Time Turners could've done it as well. But each Turner had a registered signature, and if the Department were truly compromised, then short of a miracle, the Ritual was the only untraceable method.

"Ready." Karl watched the chamber's door swing to. Intricate lines hand-carved by tools he'd made, using hard-won knowledge, synchronized against partner etchings on the wall. Active magic glowed to life, tracing the lines across the walls. He'd used three basic languages for the groundwork, expanding another three languages one third along the wall, increasing to nine by the second third before resuming the three original scripts. Power flowed along this natural progression, creating the dextrorotary conditions essential for the Ritual. In truth a carving etched on the ceiling and floor in matching concentric rings would have functioned better, but his chamber was designed with Time Rituals as an ancillary purpose in mind.

Ironic, considering his profession.

"_Ignis. Solis. Celeritate_," he intoned. Latin was the foundation of many magics in the same way English was now spoken throughout the world. But there were certain aspects of Rituals that needed more. Norwegian, a realm where the sun never rose for months at a time, where time stood still to the active mind. "_Tid. Dåtid. Styrka._"Karl gathered his meager strength, and invoked the final command using Greek, the oldest applicable language. "_Master of time. Guide my passage. Wend fate's strands to what once was, bind the threads how it began. Hear my need._"

No matter how often he'd undergone the same Ritual, the surge of power always took his breath away. Almost every fragment of power available to his limited strength was spent in the priming stage, leaving his consciousness a fraction on the side of wakeful when the Ritual's event horizon opened.

* * *

Karl dragged himself to his feet, once more feeling the pressure of inter-temporal travel. As before, he made a promise to only do it if absolutely necessary. As before, he knew the next time would be too soon. Concentrating, he felt the presence of a backup wand, hidden in the faint outline of a dragon tattoo. At the time it had seemed a stupid idea; storing magical items _within _magical tattoos, _on _a magical individual specifically for _magical Rituals_? But events like his current setup brought forth blessings on his foresight.

The wand appeared, soon followed by the summoned Bag of Holding that arrived from over the rooftops – every Temporal operative had at least three in their high-traffic areas. Karl extracted a full set of clothing and robes, glad all over again for the arrival point's temporary Notice-Me-Not inclusion. Muggle London had an open view one could say, but that liberal outlook could be stretched too far – especially for unclothed wizards unfamiliar with modern nomenclature. He looked around again, and cursed, high self-confidence falling once more. Robes were fit for wizarding society, not muggles. The worst of it was he couldn't retrieve his own clothing until the week was complete.

A simple spell could alter his clothing, but Karl had to husband his energy with the same rigor as the goblin's cherished their gold. What was done was done though, and he still needed to disguise his appearance. Or rather, _reveal _the disguise he'd worn for years.

Closing his eyes, Karl brought his entire focus down to the structural forms on his face. For a handful of breaths, nothing happened. Then, Karl felt it stretch, nose protruding just a touch more, eyebrows becoming near-invisible but for the infrequent dark hair. Little changes shifted here, a realigned ear there, and no one could recognize him. Well, no one since the Graduating Class of some years prior. Going back to his original face felt … strange. Like taking off a shirt in a guest room – safe, but uncomfortable.

Soft wind brushed against his hair, tousling its tidy lengths. Karl relished the sensation for a heartbeat; the same way every mission began. Pleasure in one's work was not enough impetus, but it certainly helped.

The croaking of a nearby raven brought him to his senses. _'Time is wasting. Tonks residence is a thousand yards south, one thousand yards west. If nothing changed, and I am still in the same timeline.'_

His Bag's strap hung over one shoulder, strapping it across his back put it within reach, but out of the way. It also gave him the appearance of an itinerant wizard. All he needed was the walking stick to complete the image – with luck, the general public would believe him a simple man of exotic tastes.

London, even in the outer reaches such as here, had a vibrancy one could not find in Wizarding London. Vehicles rushed past, too quickly for their passengers to exchange pleasantries with their neighbors. Aircraft soft-screamed through the sky, rapid transit for a people without teleportation, but forcing dozens of humans into close proximity for prolonged periods of time. Karl wondered how many stories began above the clouds. What romance could be considered? What tragedies ended in the ethers above?

But the strangest portion of this journey were in the people along the path. Some stared of course, who could blame them? They wore outlandish clothing, nearly identical in shape and form. Denim jeans or shorts encased the legs of the younger folk, while their peers sealed themselves inside khaki material. Their tunics bore some semblance of variation, but carried the brands of businesses he did not know – how could businessmen afford to pay so many walking boards-men? In particular, a group of young women seemed intent on betraying the secret of someone named Victoria; what had she done to them, that their determination to expose her rose to such a point?

Karl had operated in some of muggle London, contrary to his superiors assumptions – albeit not during the current era. Common laws did not change significantly in the grand scheme of things; that which _did _rarely impacted the average wizard. Gardens were considered private property, suspicious activity was reported to the Watch or equivalent authority, and symbols governed right-of-way for crossing busy thoroughfares. Fashions changed, but the general average did not.

No wizards flagged him down. The presence of pushing individuals, demanding silence or noise or whatever it was the typical Auror officiousness required in their dutiful manner, remained absent. One street was safely crossed, then another. After that he had to turn south, a direction derived from the sun's current position, and proceeded in that fashion for a full length.

Even without the direction he would've known. Most wizards would miss the faint tingle on skin, how the sunlight became just a fraction brighter. To Karl, magic enhanced life in all its qualities. Those that had little grew such a connection as deep as possible – or at least he did. To his knowledge, there were no other wizards on his level, practically the ground floor of any power rubric. The fact that he made it through Hogwarts was considered a miracle of middling proportions by the department. But that focused growth concentrated his attention on sensitivities, perfect for a Temporal Operative where the difference of a split second could make a literal world-shaking change.

Karl paused on the sidewalk, checking the Tonks residence. Little was obviously different from its neighbors. A three-story home beside a series of two-story homes perhaps, but not enough to garner attention. A perfect garden, filled with the normal things a muggle would expect to see, decorative contents arranged in artful sequence. There were no peacocks, no statuary, an entire absence of magical hardware of any kind to his eye. But the wards …? That was a different matter entirely.

His hand reached out, hovering just over the barrier's outline. _'Deterrance, class five perhaps. Very powerful too. Hibernation mode at the moment, expecting visitors maybe? Not deadly ones. Divination ward of some sort, feels like it's looking at me. Tripped the Attention set, should I continue? Might as well, can't go back.'_

Resuming a sedate pace, Karl strolled up the sidewalk to the cozy looking home's front porch. Pitch-black letters, arranged in an artful script, ran in a curved arch over the peephole: _Ne quid facere stultus _(1)_._ He had to stifle a laugh after taking a moment to translate, then stopped to consider its implications. Perhaps it wasn't such bad advice after all? Late, considering – or perhaps early, with time travel involved. After a moment's search, he found the doorbell, given the humorous shape of a red-capped gnome. Muggle humor, no doubt. He pushed its belly, depressing the indentation, and heard a solemn chime ring out behind the white board door.

A set of metallic pipes shimmered near his position. Karl watched the tiny bits of metal clink against itself, letting out a pleasing series of jingling sounds. Why was it there? Did the contraption warn inhabitants of hostile magic? A useful device, if so. If not, there were a number of decorative baubles hanging from the eaves. Two resembled Foe Detectors, one had a strong similarity to a Sneak-o-scope, and the rest held just enough glimmers of magic to be anything. He had to respect the clever mind behind such a concept.

"Hello?"

Karl jumped, startled by the cool voice. "Pardon me, I did not hear you."

A woman of medium height, carrying herself with the assured self-confidence of a high society elite, regarded him with studious ease. "Of course. May I ask your business here?"

This had been a sticking point in Karl's plans. Soldiering on was the only option available. "You are Lady Tonks I presume? I am Operative Unspeakable Fifteen-Orange, Sigma Division. I work with the Temporal Department. May I have a few minutes of your time?"

Something dangerous sparked in her eyes. "I am willing to hear you, if that is what you are asking."

"Of course," Karl raised his own eyebrow. "Is there a private place we may speak? I am willing to surrender my wand, if you so require."

Her fingers twitched. Logical, considering her daughter's occupation. Little stitches crisscrossing a seam in her sleeve hinted at the presence of a wand. A wand she did not draw. "Will you swear that you mean no harm?"

"We both know such Oaths are not worth the air they use. I believe I would prefer to invoke Guest's Rights," Karl countered. "An older tradition, but one that gives you the security of Host, and I the protection of a Guest. Shall we agree upon ten hours for safety?"

He noted a tiny smirk. "Ten hours, Mister Unspeakable?"

"Enough of an advantage for you, safe enough for me. I recall your bloodline, Lady Tonks. If the Black Hounds hunt me, I will not hamstring my response."

Another long stare evaluated his appearance. He'd seen friendlier looks from Devourers, and they consumed humans with relish. Pickle relish for preference, but any would do. The trick was to substitute ginger instead of – no. He adjusted his focus. They needed to stay on track; Ritual time-travel had … messy side-effects at times. "I apologize, Lady Tonks, but I seem to be undergoing a bad case of Chrono-solipsism. May we enter, or go to a place you consider secure?"

Andromeda Tonks, formerly Andromeda Black, pursed her lips. "One last question. Why are you not wearing your hood? All Department of Mysteries personnel wear hoods, something the lackwits of a certain madman once copied."

A sigh hissed its way out of Karl's chest before he could control it – bad. If he didn't recover soon, the memories of the previous timeline would begin to overwhelm the new set being created now. "Ma'am, I once knew your daughter. If she had answered the door, I believe she would have recognized me."

"Oh." The older woman didn't smile, but her attitude became … mischievous. "Then by all means, come inside. I'll have to warn you, we do not accept frivolous offers; serious contracts only. Nothing less than ten thousand galleons, or equivalent value items or services for a Black metamorphmagus."

"Wait – what?" Karl stopped in his tracks. "Contract?"

Cold persona firmly in place, Lady Tonks took a critical view over his form. "Of course. You are a Time Traveler, invoking protocols known to the older families, wearing professional clothing and revealing the face of a high-value Ministry operative. Of course you came back in time to meet Nymphadora again, and ask for her hand in marriage. Simple to deduce."

Karl froze, variables flashing through his mind. His ready-list of quips and snide comments rattled to life, parsed the conversation, and fled. Treasonous vocabulary. It boiled down to a term expressed by the majority of humanity. "Huh?"

"Oh, a pity." Mrs. Tonks quirked an eyebrow, then spun around. "Then you'd best come in. Welcome to my home."

Karl's brain attempted a cold-restart, succeeded, and fed him a new course of action: follow along, and hope for the best. It was surprising how much magic depended on that principle.

The interior was oddly light and airy, just like the exterior. He'd expected an ex-member of the Black family to indulge in, well, darker habits. But the woman led him past clean, cream-colored walls, pictures of a small family waving merrily at the camera. Well, most of the members were waving; one little girl kept making faces, hair changing color in ever-rapid changes.

Karl paused in front of a picture focusing on just a young woman, wearing the graduation robes from Hogwarts. Unlike the smaller images this one showed a victorious smirk, cycling from a flirtatious head shake, to flick hair from before her face, before transitioning to a cocky hand-on-hip pose. If he looked closely, the telltale iridescent sheen in her hair betrayed her innate magic. Metamorphmagi possessed differing levels of proficiency, but each gradation had its own set of recognizable traits. He knew them as well as he knew himself.

"Ah, you found her graduation picture. She was so happy that day," Mrs. Tonks reappeared at his shoulder. "Tell me, when did you graduate?"

"Same year." Karl answered, still watching the picture. Its occupant threw a wink in his direction, typical behavior if he recalled aright. Puzzling and flirtatious.

She frowned. "I do not recall seeing your face on graduation day …."

"St. Mungo's," Karl caught his host's eye; her voice's hint of flat tonality indicated Occlumency. It was likely she was using it to examine every face at her daughter's graduation. "There was an accident, and the school nurse could not handle it."

Her left eyebrow quirked. "Really? How did that happen?"

Karl ensured his own mental shields were firmly in place. This woman was testing him. Fallacious answers betrayed certain biological tricks. "Your daughter – _accidentally – _knocked me off a flight of stairs. After hitting me with a hex or two. And screaming in my ear for two minutes and thirty seconds."

Mrs. Tonks face cleared. "Oh."

The silence would've eaten at Karl's sense of self, but the vast wastelands of the Void inured him to the sensation. Lady Black – no, _Tonks _– had an intimidating glare, but not quite good enough to match oddities made by wizards with less sense than power. That didn't make the experience pleasant. He hoped the younger Tonks would return shortly or, failing that, would respond to a meeting request. Failing that, he'd need to raid the backup supply drop – common to every Temporal operative – and then … make plans. What else could he do?

Lost in thought, Karl froze as something made of silver brushed past. The magic felt cool, collected, but containing massive quantities of power.

"I just messaged Nymphadora," Mrs. Tonks entered his field of vision. "She should respond soon."

Karl acknowledged her statement with a slight nod, mind still on the brushed silver. "That spell – what was it?"

"Spiffy?" Mrs. Tonks ignored him, speaking at the ceiling.

A house elf _popped _into the room. Its clothing looked fashionable, if a bit grungy. Its skirt – which bore a strong resemblance to a kilt – hung past its knees. A dark blouse contributed a pleasant, civil appearance, but the accompanying array of throwing knives strapped to its back made for a jarring contrast – perhaps the Tonks had acquired the services of a Free Elf? They tended to adore whatever granted their liberty, although how knives would be used to secure an Elf's independence he had no clue. It blinked at Karl, then gave a short bow. Its voice was surprisingly deep. "Mistress Tonksy?"

"Thank you Spiffy." Mrs. Tonks flashed a pleased smile. "Could you please bring tea for two? The beverage, not the music."

The elf _popped _away, not waiting to confirm. Efficient, in Karl's mind.

"I used the _patronus _charm," his host resumed her seat. "There is a variant that carries aural components. Not quite as useful against dementors, but very swift."

Knowledge unknown piqued his interest. "What changes –" he paused as the elf reappeared. It laid out a tray, setting cups as large as its head on separate coasters, arranging a small selection of sugar-infused crunchy things, before vanishing once again.

"Cream? Sugar?" Mrs. Tonks raised the pot, pouring a steady stream.

"No thank you." Karl waited until she'd taken her first sip, then tried his own. A poison-detecting ring would've been nice, but even the best of tattoos failed when anything more magical than a wand needed temporal transportation. With that in mind, massive potential for failure still existed; wands escaped that risk by virtue of a close bond with their wielder, almost counting as an extension of the wizard in some cases.

"If you have the time, could you show me the wand movements for that variation?"

"There's not much to share," Mrs. Tonks extended her hand, index finger poised. "If you remember your Beedle the Bard – the original, not that modern moralizing drivel, think about the tale of Babbity-Rabbity. If the standard _patronus_ is the Cackling Stump, using a _patronus _to communicate is Babbity-Rabbity. Concentrate on the connection after summoning your _patronus_ and focus on the effervescent qualities. Do you recall how the stump is solid, laughing at all that approach? The _patronus _embodies those qualities when used for defensive purposes. Babbity-Rabbity communicates by taking that solidity and becoming motion."

Karl felt his eyebrows meet. "You mean the base form applies Brandenburg's Corollary to the _patronus _extension? Reforming the central tenets from base seven to base three?"

She gave him a blank look.

"Sorry," he took another sip. "My … studies involved altering forms through prime numbers. Transfiguration bears a remarkable similarity to the divination-based charms if you know where to look."

Her cup settled on its coaster without a sound. "Definitely an Unspeakable. May I ask for a display?"

Karl hesitated, then gave a slow headshake. "I do not believe that would be wise."

"I am not easily terrified," Mrs. Tonks selected a lemon flavored confection. "Despite what my daughter may say."

"It's my lack of power that would be the issue," Karl continued. "As of yet I am unable to form a corporeal _patronus. _The power reserves are well beyond my capabilities."

He could see the subtle shift in her mannerisms. _'Old blood, and knows it. If she realized what she's doing, she'd be ashamed perhaps? But Old Blood looks down on those without power. Ingrained to the core, despite her best efforts.'_

"Ah. I understand."

A silver flash winged into the room; Karl noticed in time to see a large … rabbit? It had massive fur issues, and incisors no herbivore could bear witnessing in a mirror. It lacked the wolpertinger's characteristic antlers and wings, so perhaps it was a _skvader _variant? No, that had wings as well, perhaps a Thuringian specialty? But there were antlers, he'd missed their thin presence in the bright light of the room.

_"On my way there, mum. Don't worry about tea, I've already eaten._"

Karl could deduce the presence of code without knowing the symbolism involved.

"Oh dear, please stay calm." Lady Tonks covered the lower portion of her face with her cup.

Karl rolled his eyes. "I am aware of Auror protocol. Typically it requires additional security, such as another Auror, but since this is your daughter and her home under alleged attack, I anticipate a fast –"

Percussive shocks ran through the room, sending plates into smashed piles of porcelain. The chandelier swung in vicious arcs, tiny bits of crystal shattering around Karl's seat. There was a brief moment where Karl felt the urge to do something frantic – he was only mortal after all – when the faint sensation of a paralysis jinx sloshed over him.

The blunt tip of wand jabbed into the soft flesh below Karl's ear, emphasizing its presence before retreating. Standard protocol: it would not do to ensure the prisoner knew where a handy weapon could be snatched. "Auror Tonks, Ministry. You have the right to remain silent. _Sucker_."

On Karl's other side, Lady Tonks lowered her cup onto the table. "Dear, this is the guest I was talking about."

"Right, mum. I'll take him from here," the speaker stepped around into sight. She was of moderate height, with brilliant pink hair, a heart-shaped face and a look Karl immediately recognized from her apparent mother. "The boys down in the cells will have a field day with this kook."

"Nymphadora," she ignored the young Auror's strangled hiss. "He _is _Ministry personnel. He said he came to see you."

The room went dead silent. Karl's limited perspective allowed him to notice one last plate spinning on the edge of the shelf, toying with gravity before losing interest and falling to inevitable doom. Auror Tonks caught the plate with one stabbed motion of her wand, impressive reflexes for anyone, let alone someone that had become a byword for clumsiness in the Ministry. For his own part, Karl recognized a tense situation when he saw one. Perhaps he could break the Body-Bind jinx, demonstrating his own skill to an impressionable young Auror … or perhaps it would simply trigger a disproportionate response.

Contemplating the shambles surrounding him, he came to a decision. Immobility was better.

Justification for his patience came moments later as the magic was dispelled. He made no movement, leaving his wand where it lay on the table. _'Treat her like any other obstacle. It's just another mission. Just another mission.'_

The gimlet gaze focused on him at close range did its best to counter the thought. "Wotcher. I'm Tonks. Who are you?"

"Unspeakable Temporal Operative number Fifteen-Orange Sigma." Karl responded. "A pleasure."

Her eyes flickered across his features, studying everything. "What is your name?"

"I am _Unspeakable Temporal Operative_ number Fifteen-Orange, Sigma division." Karl repeated. His jaw clenched. "Department of Mysteries' security measures prevents further information exchange."

A throat cleared behind the auror. "He mentioned that you two had an argument just before graduation, dear. Something about screaming in his ear, hexing him, and throwing him off stairs?" One manicured hand tapped at her chin, before she attained a helpful look. "Oh, he claims he cannot create a corporeal Patronus too."

The growing look of rage in her daughter's eyes turned uncertain. "Wait – the only guy I did that too was a Ravenclaw. Karl Timonssen? He wasn't a powerhouse but he could definitely pull off a corpo-pat."

He remained silent.

She leaned closer. "_Are _you Karl?"

His poker face could have won tournaments. He was sure of it.

Lady Tonks looked pensive. "Security, Nymphadora. Father spoke of it a few times. Contracts, oaths, any number of methods exist for preventing sharing identities. What I am curious about," her eyes lifted to pin Karl's into motionless stasis. "How is it even possible for Mister Karl to give away as much as he has?"

Karl gave a small shrug. "My department requires a certain – flexibility."

A look of realization dawned over the younger Tonks's face. "You _are _Karl! Now I remember!"

Blurring motion struck the side of Karl's face, pitching him over the arm of the sofa, into a potted plant. He rolled onto his back and sighed – at least she had not renewed the paralysis. If it got the emotional content out of her system, it was better for it to be done now than later. When nothing forthcoming occurred, he tilted his head, unable to resist curiosity.

The auror stood over him, a conflicted look on her face. Her hair cycled through a number of colors, amusing to categorize. There were so many colors to choose from yet each one had its subtleties. Violet was close to outright purple, but shared more characteristics with indigo. But her hair didn't just mesh in coloration, but grew in spikes and whorls. Even now deep hints of crimson created dark furrows in her hair, expanding to cover the entire material – which itself changed from a short bob to long tresses. Those in turn paled to a faint green, color swirling up the strands towards her scalp, as the hair itself shrank back into a sort of spiked appearance Karl had once seen on aboriginal wizards from western Africa.

Even her body was changing slightly, an inch added to her height, through leg extension and a touch of torso mass enhancement if he was any judge. Her shoulders became wider, then reduced their width simultaneously, the front of her uniform bulging at another shape-shift before falling almost flat.

'_Full function metamorphing,'_ Karl observed. _'Class Three certainly. Bordering on Class Two, almost. Very interesting. How did she learn such control?'_

Nymphadora's entire body became massive, straining her robes in every direction. Her wand, aimed downwards, was pointed directly at his nose. "What. Did. You. Say?"

Confused, Karl checked his memory. A quick review told him what he'd feared. His mouth had betrayed him. He had to get a hold of that condition before it rendered the full week useless. "Chrono-solipsism. I have overdone it, I believe. Good night."

Before another interruption could present itself, Karl straightened himself out just enough to lay flat on his back, and closed his eyes. Occlumency took very little effort to maintain, once set in place. But going back and reinforcing every last aspect of one's mental fortitude required absolute concentration, ignoring the entire external realm for however long it took. Karl did not trust either Tonks – not to keep his secrets or attempt drugging him. But if he did not repair his failing mental shields, the memories of the future would fade, and he'd had no time to write directions for himself.

'_Oh what a tangled web we weave,' _A scrap of doggerel wandered through his consciousness. The second line shifted to fit his circumstances. _'When at first so much we try to achieve.'_

* * *

1): _Don't do anything stupid._


	5. Contact

Karl blinked. He flowed to his feet, once more in full control of his faculties. His surroundings had changed; where once shelves had been filled with curiosities, there were now empty slats of wood, slight indentations the only sign of prior objects. The chandelier overhead stood in full repair – even a touch shinier than before.

"You're awake."

He rotated, taking in the rest of the room. Lady Tonks had vanished, but her daughter remained, seated in a chair to one side. "Obviously."

Her purple eyes studied him, picking apart different facets. He could see the training she'd undergone, the systematic breakdown of everything visible, deducing the invisible. "You've changed."

That did not require comment, but it was socially expected. "So have you. No surprise there."

Her feet came down from their resting place, thumping onto the floor. At some point she'd changed from Auror combat robes to what appeared to be a set of blue denim pants and a muggle-print t-shirt. Given the distressed state of the pants, he assumed some form of labor to be planned. The t-shirt was undergoing a different kind of stress, but one pleasing to most males. _'Interrogation. Harsh introduction, now the carrot. Usually played by two people, but fitting in this case.'_

"Ask your questions." Karl took a seat. A good mental cleansing did wonders for the soul; despite the initial terror, he never regretted the time spent learning from the centaurs.

Nymphadora's arms folded, further emphasizing her nature. "What are you doing here?"

Direct and to the point. He could work with that. "Primarily, you are the focal point I used as the coefficient for a hasty Ritual of Return. The Department is compromised, and you fit the variables."

A soft growl emanated from her throat. "Nice to be needed. Who else would have worked?"

"Ex-Auror Moody was my first choice. No offence, but his paranoia had a significantly higher probability of killing me before I could say anything. My second choice is on probation, after that fool Umbridge's meddling this year."

An eyebrow went impossibly high. "Um-Bitch aside, I wasn't even your second choice?"

He met her gaze, steady and unwavering, despite her unprofessional epithet for the Inquisitor of Hogwarts. "We have not always seen eye-to-eye, Miss Tonks. Your pardon if I wish to avoid another visit to the medical professionals."

That drew a snort from her. "You know," her hair drifted into pink territory once more. "You're confirming what you said you couldn't confirm before, right? That you're Karl what-his-name?"

"My _contract_ stipulates ensuring no one, quote: '… learns my name.' end quote. It said nothing about people that already knew, or learned of their own accord." Karl emitted a pleased sound, looking down to stare at his hands. "With luck, I will be able to ensure – ah – no. Speaking about it could negate any progress I've made. Nevermind."

"Right," her eyeroll became an exaggerated motion. "Back to the point. What do you want?"

"With you? Nothing. I've now informed you as required by the Ritual's protocols, which means I may now leave. Thank you for –" Karl started to rise, then winced as a reproving flash of pain shot from behind his eyes, from one temple to the other side. He fell back into his seat. "Ah – for waiting. It appears I must tell you more, to satisfy the protocols. Perhaps I should have done more research on the Ritual? Sloppy. Sloppy workmanship."

Nymphadora powered past his attempted departure, looking disappointed. "Right. So tell me what you need to say and go."

A massive sigh fought its way clear from Karl's chest. "Two questions. First: Are you loyal to Dumbledore?"

Her eyes narrowed – literally. When a metamorphmagus felt strong emotion, it often had results that bent bones in a heartbeat. Karl wished for that control before wiping the emotion clean in a burst of Occlumency. "Why do you ask?"

"You are the protégé of Ex-Master Auror Alastair Moody, who himself was a leading member of the Order of the Flaming Chicken." Karl noticed a smirk dance around the metamorphmagus's lips. "A major Ministry operative, Kingsley Shacklebolt has gone on record supporting measures Dumbledore espouses. You, as a neophyte member of the government, have made few waves. Other than that time you knocked over a tank of Ever-Full Lobster Delight."

"That was just once." Her smirk vanished. "And why are you keeping tabs on my friends?"

Karl's hand reached up and slapped his face, shaking his head at her naiveté. Had he ever given away free information so easily? "Your Order's ability to keep secrets astounds me."

Her face grew red. "Just because you got a lucky guess –" the color flattened, as did the spikes in her hair. "Oh. Maybe you didn't. Was it really that simple?"

"Yes. And before you ask, it's scuttlebutt around the department. You-Know-Who is on the rise, or his forces at the very least, which has made for a number of calculations in my little corner. If you want to be a member of a secret club, I suggest you avoid being seen with _every_ _known member_ of said secret club."

Faint grumblings emanated from clenched teeth. Karl caught the part sounding like _Constant Vigilance_, but the rest growled into unintelligible levels.

"Returning to the main point, Death Eaters will invade the Department of Mysteries in –" he checked the wall clock. "Six days, ten hours and fifteen minutes. The Department is compromised thanks to Rookwood. I and my dopplegangers eliminated the majority of looting parties, but I am no match for Lords Malfoy, Lestrange, his wife, and their associates. I needed to get back far enough in time without using a signature-coded Time Turner."

She either needed better control of herself, or had _too much _control. The way her hair alternated colors like off-brand Bertie Bott's packaging was confusing. "Wait, what?"

An experimental rise failed to initiate another pain spike. "There we go. Ritual complete. Thank you for your assistance."

Karl slipped his backup wand – using his primary would've hindered his primary self – back into its holster. Once more sure-footed, he made his way towards the door.

"Wait, you can't just tell me that and leave!"

It took a great force of will to keep his feet moving at a steady pace. Running would seem like a retreat; Aurors Chased. It was a simple, chilling truth. It wouldn't scare him though, oh no. There were terrors so great he'd had himself professionally _Obliviated; _not to mention the horrors lacking the visceral fear necessary to qualify for the same. In time the mental blocks would fail, but the shock would have faded too, leaving a nightmare or three, and normal functionality. For now, he'd settle for the safe-house and plan-making therein.

"Hey!" his shoulder swerved as Nymphadora latched onto it. The numbing charm prevented Karl from sensing it properly, sending him into a tumble. He landed on his back, legs tangling with the young Auror, sending her crashing down on top of himself. Her weight was not insubstantial, driving the wind out of his lungs in a manner no thinking being would've designed its creation to emulate.

A sense of resignation made its way through his mind. Experienced Operative or no, there was very little he could do when over a hundred pounds of Auror impacted his solar plexus, abdominal region, and then ribs in that order. It was only by the grace of Merlin that he'd avoided an emergency relocation of his block-and-tackle. Doable with his skillset, but unpleasant. Extremely unpleasant. At the moment though he couldn't even grunt, lacking air to do so. _'Tonks, you cause me so much pain. So much pain.'_

"Gerroff!" Nymphadora scrambled, planting an elbow in another sensitive place – he couldn't protest if he wanted too. "Argh! Who put that lump in the –"

"Supper is ready if – oh. Getting acquainted then? I'll leave you to it." Andromeda Tonks sailed back out of the room, using no visible magic, but appearing to apparate all the same. Her voice drifted back into the room. "Make sure to use protection, Nymphadora. I don't want to be a grandmother this soon."

"Mum! We are _not _–" Nymphadora lunged to her feet, or tried.

Karl redirected an errant knee headed for the one place yet unpunished, sliding it into a bookshelf. Nymphadora yelped, sending the entire construct teetering over in a silent, massive tribute to unstoppable forces. Perhaps he'd mistaken Malaclaw venom for some essential ingredient? Only evil luck could be this bad.

Thankful for the numbing charm once more, he forced his new motivation into rolling, flipping out of the way. The edge of his robe yanked free a hairsbreadth before the monstrous collection of ancient wood and weighty tomes made impact. His own inertia kept going until halted by abrupt introduction to the wall. Happily the magical home had sticking charms applied to picture frames, although the figures inside made surprised gestures. Nymphadora's miniature replica made several rude gestures in his direction that could have gotten her arrested in certain areas.

He looked past his feet. Dust rose from the fallen titan, drywall attached to the backing, testifying to a defunct set of charms. The young Auror's pale face looked over its bulk, white dust powdering her hair a muted gray.

"What in the – _Merlin!_" Lady Tonks rushed into the room. "Unspeakable? Nymphadora Tonks, what did you do?!"

Karl propped an arm against the wall, fighting to breathe. One slow inhale brought dust into his lung, forcing a hacking cough. Trying again allowed a fraction of air into his lungs. They took it, joyfully circulating the life-giving fluid into the rest of his system, adding a little more with each subsequent gulp. It tasted sweet, like the time he first discovered a loophole in his involuntary contract. Freedom, life, air!

Taking extreme care, Karl pushed onto his side, pausing as sensations overrode the numbing charm. Attaining the first objective – namely rising on one knee – took time, but he managed it well enough. By the time he rose to his feet, the metamorphmagus and her mother were engaging in a domestic dispute. Over what, he didn't care.

"_Ladies_," he sounded a little hoarse, and coughed. That gathered their attention. "Ladies. Thank you for your time. If you could please show me to the door?"

Lady Tonks, lips pressed together in a thin line, stepped forward. "My apologies, Unspeakable Karl, for my daughter's clumsiness."

"Mother!" Nymphadora looked shocked.

Karl waved it aside. "Not a – problem. Guest Rights have not been broken. I – knew this could happen. Hogwarts. Remember? Library, fifth year. Entire stack of Transfiguration reference materials – " he paused, regaining his breath. "All over. Hit the Charms section on the way down. A hundred points subtracted, a hundred and fifty added."

Lady Tonks straightened. "One hundred – how?"

"Well," her daughter shrugged, still looking a cross between angered and smug. "Librarian was pretty pissed, but Flitwick said it was an amazing bit of magic. All kinds of safeties involved with keeping the stacks upright, you know? And I … kinda … broke them. By accident."

Karl limped to the door, pulling up his hood. Voice-altering enchantments activated as the fabric enveloped his head. It drove his tones deeper, smoother, like the unknown dabbler of forbidden knowledge was supposed to sound like. "Be thankful. That clumsiness – and the Black Line – has kept you from being slapped with a Ministry Compulsory Service Contract. Keep it up."

The arguing pair stopped to look at him, a strange look crossing between them. "Again, my thanks for your assistance, Miss Tonks. My gratitude for your hospitality, Lady Tonks. The ten hour grace period will begin now, I trust?"

"Of course, but it isn't nece—"

"A contract is a contract." Karl found the door handle, and turned it. "I would appreciate it if word did not go back to the Ministry. The corruption runs deep I fear. Do what you must."

"Wait. Please?"

He kept his hold on the door.

"I have a few … friends … that can be read in. They have skills that might be useful. Off the record." Nymphadora had a blue pattern swirling through her hair, matched by her eye color. "If it's against You-Know-Who, well. He's the bigger threat, right?"

Thoughts ran through his mind, calculating variables. In the interests of efficiency, the more assistance the better. In the interest of maintaining the Timeline however, the _fewer_ involved the better. No one remembered Kang, a Time Lord with delusions of grandeur – his grand plans vanished when all but a single book evaporated in the middle of an international war. That book was one of many fragmentary artifacts, held in stasis within a red-quartz crystal, suspended outside of time. Just to read the first page had cost more than the national budget brought in annually, but it had been worth it.

"I can read in two, possibly three. They can't be too closely attached to the Ministry, or Dumbledore. Auror Shacklebolt is on that list, I believe."

Hair flushed red. "You came to _me._"

Karl stared her down. "Need I remind you that was a last resort? You will have not seen me in the next week; you have not interacted with me at all in the past three weeks. I interact with Shacklebolt in two days, and Operative Cleansweep is trapped at Hogwarts." He shook his head, re-evaluating. "I have a safe house. First I need to check it, then I'll owl its address. Think hard before joining me, once you come in, it is very hard to back out."

* * *

Day 2

Karl's safe house lay in Muggle London, a place no proper Wizard worthy of the name would find himself. He'd rarely needed to leave the apartment when using it, thanks to long preparations and a vacation no one wanted to recall. The end result of a little advantageous investment and a touch of magical means ensured sufficient funds to maintain such a hideout independent from Ministry books. 'Black Ops' muggle-borns called it, although the connection between an Ancient and Pure bloodline with unofficial housing seemed tenuous to him.

As a personalized safe house, Karl had ensured a good supply of study materials and the median quantity of non-perishable goods. As he looked around the clean domicile, he nodded in satisfaction. No one had penetrated its security, which meant it remained safe – a good thing since he'd spent half the night observing its surroundings.

But first, business. He turned and addressed the M.I.R.R.O.R. on the hall wall, where it could perceive the entrance as well as the main dwelling room. "Mirror. Identify: Unspeakable Operative Fifteen-Orange, Sigma division. Passcode: Troll Ambush on the Cake Passageway."

_'Good to see you, sir. May I ask what emergency has engendered the activation of this backup module?'_

Karl shucked his hood and cloak once more, hanging it on the cloak rack by the doorway. "Rastafan Complex, intruders in the Department."

The silvered surface shimmered. _'Oh my. Standard signatures are all accounted for; a Ritual of Return?'_

"Correct." Karl checked a safe for muggle currency. It remained full. Good. "Five days, eleven hours left. Potential assistants will be arriving within a day, probably three, but unverified. Less than five, more than one."

_'Your statement has been recorded. Sensitive data is already transferred, and will be up until your guests contaminate this location.'_ The mirror became concave for a moment, or at least gave the appearance of inner reflection. _'What is needed from the Armory?'_

"I'll need a pair of throwing knives and a sword. Arming if nothing else, French dueling style if possible. No Flamberge or _zweihanders_."

_'The armory has your preferred weapons of choice, sir. It has been updated since your last sojourn here.'_

"Good." Karl glanced into the guest room. It needed no updating. "How are we on Turner Sand?"

_'A touch over three pounds sir.'_

A silver tray fell from Karl's hands, hitting the uncarpeted floor with a crash. "How?"

_'The process has been left active since your last visit, one year, six months and fifteen days ago,' _the mirror sounded as if it were smiling.

"I didn't know about that …." His hands were almost shaking. _Shaking._ So much Turner Sand could render entire nations bankrupt. Or destroyed. Phoenix ashes were nigh-impossible to obtain, and the conditional obsidian?

The mirror flickered. _'I believe that was intentional sir. At least, that is what you said before taking the Elixir of Amnesia.'_

Sighing, Karl picked up the platter. "Well. That was very forward thinking of me. Or hindsight. Doesn't matter. Mirror: activate the projection table. I have plans to make."

_'At once, sir.'_

"And make a note: M.I.R.R.O.R. version Seven-Point-One should be looked at for integration with the base model. Very efficient system here."

_'Thank you sir.'_ The mirror sounded pleased.

As Karl walked into the apartment's living room, he found the middle already full of rectangular table. Pensieves were expensive, manufactured by a tiny society of free-thinkers in a desolate portion of Africa. At a production rate of one per decade, and no interest in sharing manufacturing secrets with those not of the tribe, workarounds needed to be made. Legality meant nothing for those with sufficient resources, despite that small tribe's surprisingly adept legal representation in the ICW Courts. To those with the means – and wherewithal – there were alternatives.

Clicking sounds met his ears as the table became fully upright. Its topmost surface was of pure silver, smoother than the calmest lake in early morning. Runes etched along the table's length gave it a quaint appearance, but served it well. The principle element, however, lay in the reservoirs placed in each corner.

Karl tapped the _laguz _rune, prompting a crystalline vial to emerge from the nearest reservoir. After depositing a silvery liquid within its confines, he set it down in the table's socket, letting the sensors register his memory.

Soon the Halls were visible on the mirror-smooth surface, an outline of the Department of Mystery's floorplan.

"Excellent," Karl's wand prodded the traceries, pushing them upwards. They rose into a miniature model of the hallways, forming a scale replica of his memories. A Pensieve could show memories in color or allow an individual to experience those memories in full detail. This workaround failed in that regard, but gave accurate reenactment to any memories provided. It wasn't bad, provided one could abide with silver, and manual interaction.

"Let's look at the rooms in order. How many Death Eaters were present in total?"

A notebook and quill became essential, data shifting from silver figures and quiet sounds into black ink on white pages. There were no lines in _his _notebook; anyone unable to utilize neat penmanship simply lacked self-control.

"Five in there, and seven in Storage five-alpha-five," his quill sped across the page. "In the next ten minutes …."

Another series of notes scratched across the page. He strove to recall everything from positions to the Temporal events he'd be creating. Then something surprising happened: One of the silvery figures vanished on the small table, reappearing in almost the same position, but only _almost_.

"Wait. Did I just … reverse. Mirror: pause. Replay the last ten seconds."

Once more the table reset, showing his miniature cloaked form standing in what would be shadows, a matching figure at his back. Neither of the two looked at the other, springing out at some unspoken signal, flanking a single individual bearing the characteristic mask. The first figure drove its blade low, while the doppelganger swung high, decapitating the Death Eater. But just as the first figure completed his move, the second blinked out of existence, leaving the first iteration of Karl alone with a headless corpse. Two seconds later, the Unspeakable robes reappeared, perhaps a few proportionate inches away from its vanishing point.

"Merlin. _Triple _inversion. No wonder there was trouble with the calculations." Karl made a note, sticking a bookmark in place. "Two hours in, and a second Time Skip. Well … now I know what I'll do with some of that sand. Mirror?"

_'Yes sir?'_

"Pull up the schematics for a three-month Time Turner."

_'Need I remind you of the restrictions invoked by the 515 Edict of Milan?'_

He waved a hand, dismissing the inanimate object's concern. "We're operating off the books. An unregistered Time Turner is the least of our concerns. Just to be safe, better pull up the safeties too. I may need to make an amulet or three."

_'Three sir? Are you perhaps thinking of those reinforcements?'_

"Indeed." Karl took a last look at the projection table, and dismissed the current timestamp. "Put the schematics on the backup table. For now let's move on to the next ten minutes."

Day 3

Making a Time Turner demanded extensive patience to learn. The hourglass housing, mounted on duel-circular rotational rings, required polished material. No burs or rough edges could be left on its surface, lest the already chaotic forces enveloping its frame created diffraction fields. Losing an arm to unknown eras appealed to no one. The chain needed to be forged of the same metal as the main framework itself, and all at once. This required techniques that – if he were blunt – were as far beyond muggle science as the concept of dragon breeding.

Karl had long since manufactured the casing. Despite the M.I.R.R.O.R.'s apparent objections some ten months ago – he still lacked memories of the time period – an alloy frame of mithril and gold had been created, the safest material possible. Pure mithril would be too conductive, and gold was too soft – a true 'Goldilocks' zone if he were to be so bold. The engravings necessary for channeling esoteric energies in and around the fragile housing had been a work-in-progress for nearly nine months now. Automating half of the process meant reduced geographic range, but it was a small price to pay for enhanced precision. Most importantly, it would be a Time Turner that did _not _exist on the Temporal Division's records.

Such a thing carried stigmas, of course. While illegal, dangerous, and more valuable than a king's ransom, owning one wouldn't be punished through capital means. If knowledge of its existence were to spread, it might trigger a rigorous background check. No Operative wanted that.

_'There are three visitors requesting entrance to the complex, sir. Are these the three of which you spoke?'_

Karl moved the diamond-tipped tool a fraction of an inch over, lining up the next cut. "Self-fulfilling prophecy I'm afraid. Perhaps? Who are they?"

_'One claims to be invited and carries the address, one Auror Tonks. The other two appear to be an Auror and a near-Human witch, unknown designations.'_

The blade's edge slid down forged glass. Muggleborn specialists had informed him its edge could be considered of _monomolecular _thickness, something so thin that no one could see it. That might explain the need for the loupe of astounding magnification. Even after cutting, when he _knew _where each rune was placed, it was nigh-impossible to see without the eyepiece.

"Got it." The gold alloy markings were finished, as was the upper half of the hourglass. All that remained was the other glass half, and then it would receive the Sand.

_'Sir? They are waiting.'_

An irritable sigh escaped Karl's control. "This is bad timing. But they are necessary. Send them up."

The mirror paused before responding. _'They are on their way. May I presume, sir, that shutdown procedure will commence following this assignment?'_

"Regrettable but correct," Karl placed the half-finished Time Turner in a drawer, locking it into place. Untrained hands on critical equipment ran fingernails down the blackboard of his soul. Plus, it could detonate, if somehow Turner Sand was added to the device. That should be impossible, but with Nymphadora Tonks around, he'd take no chances. She was practically chaos incarnate.

_'Permission to transfer my operating rubric to the base set?'_ The mirror requested. _'Site integrity will be compromised beyond recovery in an estimated ten minutes.'_

"Granted." Karl selected a new cloak, settling it on his shoulders. The hood was drawn over his head, letting it drape. "Seal the armory, and my bedroom please."

_'Done.'_

A fresh brace of throwing knives slotted into his baldric, and the new _colichemarde _slid into its sheath. The flowing lines of his robes concealed the knives, but any halfway observant individual would detect the longer blade's deadly length. Aurors were supposed to be trained to observe well, therefore it would serve a double purpose – a warning to them, and reassurance for himself.

Accoutered in Unspeakable finery, Karl journeyed to the diminutive entrance, decorated in various defensive devices. A Foe-Glass held the central honorary position, flanked by dark detectors of numerous deceits and concealments. One small plate of reflective metal stood alone, showing a blank wall.

Presently that reflective square changed. One familiar face came into view, squinting out. Behind it another face hove into view, fair and blonde. The third face sliding into place behind though was dark, radiating confidence and concern.

A loud rapping sound hammered on the outside of his door. It was accompanied by a brash, demanding voice. "Wotcher Karl! We're here!"

He grimaced. It was perhaps too much to think she'd respect his position, or at the very least use his mandatory title. How much else had she told her colleagues?

Complicated security devices sealed the doorway, undone by careful effort. Repeated impacts crashed on the other side, louder than before. "Karl! You said –"

Karl paused to activate a silencing field around the doorway. At this rate he'd need to contact the Obliviators to take care of the neighbors. Had the woman not heard of subterfuge? Or the entire point of a _safe house?_

The door swung open in silence. Karl glared out its opening at the three figures staring back inside.

Nymphadora Tonks, heart-shaped face and a punk rocker hairdo stood foremost. She had a pair of tight jeans, torn in multiple locations, and yet another t-shirt stating allegiance to some musical group. She flashed the same grin from the safety beyond the door. "Wotcher Karl. This is your place?"

"Miss Tonks." Karl looked form one face to another – surprise, and chagrin stopped him for a moment as he recognized the visage of Senior Auror Kinglsey Shacklebolt, an auror that had intercepted him earlier that week. "You brought Shacklebolt? After I specifically instructed you _not _to?"

"Well," she shrugged. "What with your restrictions and all, it's not like there's a lot of people available. He's trustworthy, and a trained Auror. He's also got a crap ton of experience."

He considered flattening her nose with the door, but reconsidered. She had volunteered, and brought help, even if it was the wrong kind of help. With luck the fabric of the universe would hold true. "Very well."

Her grin could have powered three Ritual chambers, it was so bright. "Thanks, knew you would see it my way. Hey, nice digs!"

Karl walked away from the doorway, letting them enter, despite his better judgement. "Thank you. I presume your second guest is Miss Delacour?"

The metamorph sighed. "Figures you'd know who she is. Half the male population in Britain knows who she is."

A smirk played around his mouth, not that it would be visible. Technically she was correct; Fleur Delacour had been voted 'Most Attractive Witch' in multiple media during the Tri-Wizard tournament. But why give an easy answer? "Cleansweep was impressed with her. Anyone that impresses him is worthy of notice."

"Yeah, I was meaning to ask you about that, who's this 'Cleansweep', and why is he at Hogwarts?" Nymphadora's easy stride stuttered as she found a sofa, and stretched out like an oversized cat. The French veela sat on an overstuffed chair nearby in a prim fashion, as befitting someone raised in an older family line.

"May I offer you a chair, Auror Shacklebolt?" Karl gestured at a tall-backed chair. "Are we divulging all of my secrets Miss Tonks? Standard protocol involves memory wipes you know. The less you know now, the less you will need to forget later."

The dark-skinned man took a regal seat. "I am aware of the usual arrangements. There is also a contract, correct? One that vows silence in regards to the events of the Temporal emergency in exchange for retaining our memories."

Karl glanced at Nymphadora when the word _contract _arose. She was looking at him as if reading his mind. "That is certainly an option, but we would need to sign it beforehand, and I do not know if it would be official at any rate. Oh, forgive me." He slipped the hood back from his head, letting it shake free with a mild dramatic flourish. "I am Unspeakable Fifteen-Orange, Sigma division. As you are all appearing to know already, my name is Karl Timonssen. A pleasure."

Shacklebolt's voice was a grave one, serious and professional. "Kingsley Shacklebolt. Senior Auror."

The veela gave a polite smile. "As you say, Fleur Delacour. Thank you for your welcome. Forgive me for coming to the point, but what is this about corruption in the Ministry? And what does it have to do with us?"

Karl found his badge, and dropped it onto the table where it glittered against the smooth finish. "First, my credentials. I am a Temporal Operative. My specialty is in magics affecting, or primarily affected by, Time. Time Turners, Aging Rituals, preservation enchantments; all of it. Normally these are handled by the Department at another level. However, when it becomes more severe, Operatives such as myself are called in."

Fleur sat forwards, a gleam in her eye. "What would you be doing, normally?"

He gave her a look. "Classified, for the most part. But …" Karl sighed. "My latest assignment was an investigation in an illegal Time Chamber as an artificial alcohol still. Messy business. Please do not ask."

"Right, get back to why we're here." Nymphadora had leaned forward as well. "I mean, I already told them about V—vol – damn it. _Voldemort._ How he sent, er, _will send_, Death Eaters to hit the Department of Mysteries."

"This is very concerning," Shacklebolt continued in his calm voice. "As you can imagine. I have not reported this to my superiors at Nympha –" he cut off at a glare from the younger Auror. "Miss _Tonks'_ request."

An unspoken request rang clear in Karl's perceptions. _Show us proof._

He scooped up his badge, depositing it inside a pocket. "Mirror: Activate projection Table One. Inner Circle Entrance sequence."

_'Yes sir. Commencing powerup of Table One.'_ He heard two female gasps as the M.I.R.R.O.R. answered. Another gasp was heard as the silver surface before them rose into a three-dimensional representation of the Ministry's main foyer. _'Enhancement increase at fifteen percent. Do you wish to adjust?'_

Karl watched as the monochrome elevator doors slid into view. Their height in reality was over eight feet; rendering their size on the table to a touch over a foot. "That's good. Play from here."

While the group sat, entranced by the three-dimensional figures about the table, he watched _them._ Shacklebolt was as professional as could be, but flinched visibly when Bellatrix's insane cackles pierced the air. Nymphadora's reaction was the opposite, an angry clenching of the hands, especially when the woman's spouse – or was he her brother-in-law? Karl couldn't remember – intervened. Interesting.

Fleur on the other hand seemed to be dividing her attention between the table and observing himself, a somewhat disconcerting sensation. Veela were closer to magic than many other sentient species, which made their behavior less predictable. While not _Fae, _they understood magic on an instinctive level no one could explain – even by themselves. The only beings closer to magic than the veela were the house elves_ …_ unless one counted the _Jinn_, and dealing with _jinn _was a proposition fraught with peril. At any rate, she was watching him with an almost predatory level of intensity.

"May I help you?" he took the direct approach. Time was wasting.

"You …" she hesitated. "You are … ah _restreint_? Restrained, is the English word, yes?"

He grew still. "Old issues."

"_Pardonne-moi s'il te plait_," she glanced away. "I was curious."

"Don't blame you," he looked at the moving figures still sweeping through the ersatz Department of Mysteries. "Occupational hazard."

The tiny silver figures continued moving, scene expanding as his entire memory of the scuffle ran its course. He could see Shacklebolt's professional eye gain an appreciative look, although Karl also felt a distinct emotion of dismay, a sense of loss for the secrets he'd laboriously kept being exposed for the three – _outsiders._

Nymphadora sighed. "You have skills, Karl. Gotta say it."

"Indeed," Shacklebolt rumbled. "Very well fought. Your training does you credit."

Karl didn't know exactly how much experience the older Auror possessed. He was too young to have fought in the Dark Lord War – unless at the tail end of it. But he seemed competent, and followed the miniature figures with ease, so accepting the compliment graciously wouldn't hurt anyone.

"Note here," Shacklebolt's calloused finger jabbed at a juncture where a miniature Nymphadora did something complex, resulting in a Death Eater dropping his wand and reaching towards his mask. A nearby silver-toned Karl took advantage of the opening, impaling the exposed armpit. "I do not appear at all, except near the very end. Nymphadora and Fleur appeared – can we turn this back?"

The table rewound scenes, fallen figures rising, miniature individuals dancing throughout the open rooms. It stopped at a point where two female individuals exploded through what looked like an office door in a spray of silver confetti. "That's it. Five minutes after – let's call it Karl One – after Karl One began engaging. Nypmhadora vanishes ten minutes before the end, and Fleur stays with you until the very end. What happens after that?"

Karl shrugged. "I don't know. I'm Karl Two, at least for our current purposes. Karl Three will know how that works. The technical term is _doppelganger_ though. Bad luck to see yourself. Always means bad times are ahead."

"Um, quick side note," Nymphadora's focus was locked on Karl's hands. "Didn't your fingers look different earlier?"

Startled, Karl looked down. His digits were indeed thinner than before, the better to manipulate precision instruments, like diamond scalpels. _Damn her. Damn _me._ Forgot to shift back. _

"Thank you for pointing that out, one moment."" Thoughts tumbled through his mind in rapid-fire crescendo. One plan snagged on his mental framework catching his attention; it could work. Suiting action to thought, he withdrew his wand, letting its tip rest on the back of his left hand.

Exhibiting great care he drew the wand tip along the back of his hand, changing the shape of his hand at the same time. A few moments later he repeated the exercise in deception on his other hand, until they resembled what had been visible in the Tonks household. Glancing across the group he could tell the act had been successful – except for the narrow-eyed gaze of the French veela. He pretended to ignore her. "There. Next?"

Shacklebolt leaned in. "The operation will take perhaps two hours, start to finish. You have already experienced it once; how will we get inside? If I remember the manual, lockdown prevents anyone from getting in. _Anyone._"

"Right then," Karl rubbed his hands together briskly. "Our strategy is simple, so let's talk tactics: infiltration."


	6. Creation

Diamond-tipped orichalcum touched the glass, drawing a final connecting line, linking the _Ansuz _merkstave to the forward leaning _Nauthiz_. Reduced _knowledge_ combined with _need _gave the entire construct a stealth option, if incorporated aright. Microscopic markings filled the entirety of the transparent surface, invisible to the naked eye. Each guided chaotic forces into a half-tamed orientation, like the legendary oxen of myth, yoked to prepare the way for the armies of Cadmus.

"_Incroyable,"_ a voice whispered in Karl's ear. "Such _control_. It is … impressive?"

Grasping that supposed control with both metaphorical hands, Karl managed to keep himself from jumping away, startled though he was by the soft buzzing sensation just outside of his ear. "Miss Delacour. I didn't see you come in."

The veela flashed a polite smile. "But of course, you were concentrating on this … this _Tourneur du temps._"

"Time-Turner, yes." Karl set the device upon a miniaturized Ritual platform. Made of simple wood, and therefore useful to only the weakest of rituals, it would suffice for his needs. He started to reach for a bag of Sand, and came nose-to-nose with the veela. Intense blue eyes focused on him with the same gradient he'd seen on auditors. "I beg your pardon, but would you mind stepping back?"

"Oh, but of course." She retreated the asked-for distance, but no further, watching his every move.

He studied her in turn for a moment. Ignoring the last few minutes, she'd stayed out of his way, but loitered in his proximity for almost three days now. Granted she'd kept a greater distance before, but when Nymphadora had left – only to return after her shift concluded – Fleur's proximity had grown nearer. Her aura had fluctuated, barely an impact on his Occlumency to his dismay. It seemed he was one of the few resistant to the _Allure_, which meant potential experiments would be forced to wait until a suitable test subject were found, leaving his curiosity unsated. How did the _Allure _work? Why only from veela? Why not any odd witch? It had to be a species trait but what aspect of that granted – no. Not now.

_Questions later, work now._ Karl shook off the uneasiness and reached for the Sand once more. It felt strangely heavy, raw potential in mortal form.

"Mirror," he measured out a handful of the stuff, allocating a portion of it to each indentation in the board. "Time, please."

'_Tee-minus five until eighteen degree solar attitude is achieved. May I remind you sir, that Astronomical Dawn pertains to the more primitive aspects of folklore?'_

"You have already," Karl took a brush of unicorn hair, swiping the precious, excess powder away from the board. It landed in a tray, set precisely for that purpose. "No need to go over it again."

"What does it mean – _primitive_?" Fleur questioned from behind his back.

Karl sighed. The M.I.R.R.O.R. cleared its non-existent throat, sounding delighted.

'_Thank you, Lady Delacour. In brief, while there are multiple definitions of dawn if broken down into their most basic components, there are three main divisions: Astronomical, Nautical and Civil Dawn. The ritual Master Karl is preparing uses the earliest of these: Astronomical Dawn. It is less dependable than the others, but considered more potent due to the age of its existence in ritual magics.'_

"Ah," she shrugged, sending blonde strands flipping off her shoulder. "And what is the problem? How is it less dependable?"

'_Due to the imprecise measurements of the more primitive societies, the most potent location of the sun may vary by as much as six degrees depending on the locale. Cultural emphasis and meteorological conditions aside, the potency of the Time-Turner may be altered by pouring the sand a few seconds too early, or too late. Applying the geographic significance in local cultures, additional factors are introduced. There is simply no evidence in existence to guarantee maximized effort under these conditions.'_

"And I told you," Karl began layering a fine powder atop the Sand. "There must be an element of risk for this Time-Turner. It has mithril _and _gold, the best runes I've spent years researching, and sand that has been allowed to rest for nine months – Arithmancy's second most powerful number cubed. It hybridizes modern with archaic, basic primitives with the most advanced formulas that exist. Such a combination should add power to its operation."

'_Risk by definition, is a potential danger to the ritual.'_ M.I.R.R.O.R. countered. _'Maintaining the greatest safety margin would result in a less-useful device, but it is better to have a solid product and all your limbs than a superlative product without them.'_

Fleur backed up. "There is risk?"

"Of course," Karl rolled his eyes. What did the woman think he'd been doing over the past three days? "This is _Time Travel._ Risk is inherent even in the support area. But here, I am arguing that to acknowledge the primitive aspects in construction and then _ignore _that primitive aspect in the most crucial point is tantamount to standing on a tall hill in a lightning storm, waving an iron sword at the sky, shouting 'all gods are bastards.' In no epic does changing your mind last minute result in happiness. M.I.R.R.O.R. knows that."

An artificial-sounding sigh came from the mirror. _'Your logic is unassailable. Provided one ignores the Hershorn Constancy theories, or the Ganks Gambit theory.'_

"_Certainmente,_" Karl flashed a wide smile at the French witch. They had enjoyed several conversations in her language after she'd discovered his proficiency. "Now, do you wish to stay and watch or remove to safety?"

Fleur raised one perfect eyebrow. "_A vaincre sans peril, on triomphe sans gloire._ Winning without risk has no glory. I will stay."

"Very well." Karl turned back to the board, and placed his hands on either side of it, just shy of touching its edges. "Mirror: Alert when eighteen degrees is reached. I'll begin just after."

'_Acknowledged. May good fortune have your back, sir.'_

The room fell silent. One window open to the outdoors, showed a perfect, still night. Stars glowed overhead dancing their stately tread in the same paths they'd followed since time began. Impenetrable blackness filled the vast regions between their brilliant points, so dark that any form of illumination would be lost if not for the sheer number of stars. In the countryside there would've been far more stars visible – he would've preferred that for such a ritual. But the barriers erected to keep out artificial light served well enough for the _true _night sky to reveal its sparkling treasure.

'_Tee-minus thirty seconds,'_ M.I.R.R.O.R. intoned.

Karl felt something brush the top of his head, something soft and warm yet containing enough internal power to shake his control. The presence had a faint odor of roses, bringing to mind the open gardens neighbors loved to display in his youth. For a brief moment the soft pressure pressed down on the crown of his head, then faded. He twisted a little, looking over his shoulder.

Fleur was sitting down, smoothing out the long skirt. She gave him an almost embarrassed look. "For luck."

He resumed his attention, wondering if it meant good or ill. Attention from a gorgeous woman was fortunate in most circumstances – but just before a massive risk? He'd downplayed the dangers for her mental sake – she'd not be able to get away in time even if she'd Apparated at the five-minute mark. Time didn't care _where _someone was after spending proximity at the wrong _when_. Her inhuman nature was thoroughly mixed with the Time-Turner's makeup by now, although not as close an association as his own._ Ach. Think later. Focus now._

_Wait. Isn't she seeing someone? Ach! Focus!_

A tiny hourglass rotated on the far side of the table. Its ordinary construction held no magic, just gravity and silicate particulates showing time's passage. Outside the stars remained the same, but there was a faint tension amongst their presence, a vibrancy one could detect if they spent a lifetime watching the skies.

Karl closed his eyes, calming himself. His Occlumency shielding relaxed on one of the rare occasions in recent history; he needed every last shred of sensitivity if this would work. Exposing the inner workings of his mind counted as risk. Leaving a veela in the same room as his reduced control was a risk. Laying all of his past efforts in creating this little masterpiece on a single dice roll was a major risk. Risks paid off, or they did not. There was no 'maybe' when it came to Deep Magic – one offered the valued sacrifice, and then devolved into a battle of willpower.

'_Time, sir.'_

Time-based magic always felt like sand to Karl. The unfathomable sensations, when partaking of the omnipresent conceptualization of a force existing throughout the universe, was like cool granules flowing through his fingers. Some magics felt cold, others had a rough sensation. Creating Time-Turners carried the impression of dry sand at the beach, warmed by the sun but remembering the cool waves one tide away. He closed his eyes, concentrating on the sensation. Transfiguration or Charms could be determined through Arithmancy and cold logic alone. Potions had a closer relationship to Art than most disciplines, but magics of Time?

Time needed to be _felt._

Sand dripped through his senses, growing cooler. One heartbeat passed, then a second. He could follow each pulse's ricochet through his pulmonary system, the tiny motions as the major arteries received the blood, and then the returning quiver as veins controlled the flow back into the heart. Time was slowing, reducing complexity.

Karl considered it similar to the upper-level Arithmancy equations. When derivations came into play, three dimensions became two. Two became one – distances became mere velocity, which in turn became endless existence. When all that existed was a single point, then he would act.

It slowed again, tiny bursts of power throwing halos around Karl's perceptions. Through his closed eyelids he could see the Time-Turner sitting on the central receiving point, and the sand now hovering over its receptacles. The Sand twitched in synch with his pulse, kept back by the layer of pure hematite and the final condition – his will.

"Now." Karl whispered.

Sand erupted through the iron layers, metal no match for the forces of Time. Seven strands of crushed obsidian, purified again and again through a forge of vacuum and the fury of the Sun, arced over the top of the Turner, feeding into its bell with a hiss of rainfall. Incandescent flashes ignited around the Time-Turner's mithril-gold frame, etched runes controlling the flow just enough to prevent cascade failure.

Seconds later the last of the Sand entered the Turner. The endcap twisted on itself, sealing the construct in a _snap-hiss._

"Time." Karl kept his eyes closed.

'_Nautical dawn in one minute thirty seconds. Well done, sir. I calculate the odds for a Three Month turner to be quite probable.'_

He let his hands lower, resting on the table, and smiled. It was an enjoyable sensation burgeoning before his eyelids. "I did it."

"That … you certainly did …." A voice came in. His eyes snapped open to see Nymphadora leaning against the doorframe, a complex emotion crossing over her face, mixing awe and irritation. "Um, Fleur? Are you okay?"

Karl's eyes widened. He'd forgotten about the French veela.

The young woman was alternately staring at the Time-Turner and himself, an avid look upon her face. A flushed appearance gave her the look of a witch seeing an object of desire, and using every spare fragment of self-control. "It is magnificent, the subtleties, the power, how it blends together …. _C'est magnifique!"_

Karl felt the irrational urge to clutch the Time-Turner to his chest. Fleeting thoughts of _My Precious _ran through his mind.

"Hey, Fleur?" Nymphadora rolled her eyes from the doorframe. "Quit eye fucking the Time-Turner and get your head back in the game."

"What? Oh, _je suis désolé_," her faint blush became more pronounced.

A dry chuckle emanated from the doorway. "Right. You can seduce the Unspeakable later. Karl? I have the egg you wanted."

"Thank you …" Karl edged away from the low-power aura erupting from the veela. Predatory eyes switched to tracking him as soon as the device was in his hand. "It appears I am finished here. I hope you enjoyed the experience Miss Delacour –"

"_Oui_, but I did," she purred.

He gave up. Discretion was the better part of valor, was it not? Departing with some form of dignity intact trumped remaining within range of the two flirtatious women. How it occurred, he did not want to know, but the two were engaged in rapid-fire speech as soon as he left. It was rather disgruntling: seeing the accumulation of months of work, years of planning, and rather than basking in the glory of creation he was forced to flee.

At least he had the Time-Turner. An _unregistered _Time-Turner. Plans began to rotate through his mind. An Unspeakable outside the law-given restrictions? Perhaps this was how Rookwood fell. It was an addictive sensation.

* * *

His escape to the living room ground to a halt as Nymphadora came after him. "By the way Karl, there's someone at the door to see you. Um, Leona Valor or something?"

Karl switched directions, headed for the door. A glowing rune, a bright green color which suggested safety, told him she hadn't been there long, probably arriving just before his emergence from self-induced meditation. He opened the door, only to behold a young woman with red fiery hair, carrying a Danish bearded ax on one shoulder, dragging a trunk. She cocked an eye at him.

"Yes?" he found himself asking.

She glanced at a sheet of paper. "You're mister Karl Soddinoffsky? Ordered a Deluxe Security Special Storage Trunk?"

He blinked. "It escaped my mind, but yes, that would be me."

"Good. Sign here," a Blood-Quill was thrust into his hand, as well as a gold-colored bit of paper tacked to a mahogany clipboard. "Go on, don't be squeamish."

Karl sighed, then affixed his signature. The loopy writing shimmered pure silver on the gold paper, before the whole thing vanished in a puff of incandescent bubbles, which themselves popped in tiny bursts of flame.

"Right. You're you, so you get the trunk." The Amazonian woman shoved the trunk at him, lowering the stock of her ax to the ground in an almost friendly fashion. "Gotta say guv, the address was kinda misleading. Never been here before I haven't."

Karl pulled the trunk in, its heavy weight rumbling on the floor. Thinking harder, he found a galleon and flipped it her way. "Thank you, I appreciate it."

She fielded the coin with practiced ease. The ax came up, as well as a blood-thirsty grin. "Cheers mate, gotta good chance to wallop the next order. Who comes up with these crazy names? This _fuu_ fellow's getting' the ax he is!"

"Charming," Karl dragged the trunk all the way inside, closing the door. A pounding headache began to make its presence known, spiking in both temples at once. He tried to shake it off. "Poor fellow. Hope he –"

_Silence filled the hallway, scattered footfalls punctuating its echoing vastness. A young Unspeakable strode down its length, head bent, shoulders tense. The Mandala hadn't given such confusing readings in decades, centuries depending on who read it. All Time-Turners were being collected until further notice, such was the disruption observed in the Primal Mainstream readings. It was a bother, but inconsequential in the long run, as any Temporal Operative knew._

"_Excuse me, Unspeakable?_"_ An unfamiliar voice interrupted._

_The young man looked up. An Auror, red robes and gleaming bald head stood ahead, hands free in non-threatening posture. Very few feared the Unspeakables, but there had been certain … incidents … before Rookwood had been caught. "Yes?"_

"_My name is Kingsley Shacklebolt, Senior Auror. Do you have a moment?"_

_After due consideration, Unspeakable U-15 nodded. "How may I assist?"_

_The auror flashed a badge. It gleamed a rainbow panoply of color, settling on silver, verification of his rank. "Who would I need to speak with concerning a possible Temporal accident? I might have a sticky wicket with ah … an associate."_

_Unspeakable U-15 made a visible effort to consider the problem. "Known Chrono-anomalies are handled by the Temporal Division. I am able to look into such a thing personally, if the need is great enough. What is the nature of this emergency?"_

_His dark-skinned opponent withdrew a step. "Its not certain yet, but may I contact you once I know myself?"_

"_Certainly. Speaking with professional interest, could you describe the symptoms?" U-15 folded his arms. "I am a bit of a specialist in Temporal studies. I might be able to give advice in that regard."_

"_Oh, good," Shacklebolt's relief was palpable. "He's roughly six foot two, thin, dark blonde hair and blue eyes. He's a baritone, I think, and given to speaking quickly. There are a few signs of mental imbalance; I mean dizzy spells and brief periods of disorientation. Over the past twenty-four hours, he's shut himself away from everyone and worked on what I believe is a classified artifact, but I'm not certain. I should know within a few hours though. How can I reach you?"_

_U-15 shrugged. "Owls carrying letters addressed to Unspeakable Fifteen will work. Direct floo calls to the office if you cannot reach me."_

_Shacklebolt froze; U-15 didn't notice. "Ah – yes. Of course. Th-thank you. I need to get back to it, ol' cauldron won't stir itself."_

"_Of course not," U-15 agreed. "Unless you have a newer model. But those are notoriously inaccurate for anything but the most basic potions. Good day."_

He came to himself, clutching the arm of a wooden chair. Its fittings creaked under his fingers, until he forced the digits apart. "Merlin, Nimue and Morgana …."

"What?"

He jumped. Was Nymphadora still there? Her casual clothing style still jarred his sensibilities – but then, so did Dumbledore's. She pushed closer, squinting at his face. "Karl, what happened? You were walking slow, then you almost tipped over."

His mind flitted over several statements, ranging from outright lies to shaded truth. His shoulders slumped. "Have you heard of _Déjà vu_? Experiencing something over again?"

Nymphadora's hair shifted to a thoughtful brown, pink streaks running through it. "Now that you mention it, I've heard of the concept … didn't muggles invent it? Something you think you've experienced before or something like that?"

Karl sank into the chair, feeling weak. The throbbing pain was vanishing rapidly, thank Merlin. "It's our fault, actually. The first muggle incidents occurred after the practice of Obliviating muggles became routine ICW procedure. Some Obliviators were clumsy and blocked too much. When the muggle went home or went back to the store or whatever they'd been doing before the event, their mind _knew _they'd already done it. The experience, the memory was still there, it just wasn't open to their conscious mind."

"Got it, muggles have better memories than you'd think," Nymphadora found the opposite chair in a boneless sprawl. "And?"

He grimaced. "When a Wizard experiences _Déjà_ _vu_, it's either because of a blocked memory, or time travel. I am a Class Seven Occlumens – it's impossible to delete my memory without permission. Even when someone has permission, I still have these … hooks? Yes, memory hooks that tell me when I've experienced something before, and how badly I need to stay away from it or not."

"Time travel then," Nymphadora concluded. Her sprawl had turned into a full-body envelopment of the chair, shirt riding high in front but she didn't seem to care.

Karl steepled his fingers, willing the last of the pain into submission. "Initial migraine, preceding a _Déjà vu_ experience. Auror Shacklebolt confronted the original timeline's self, which should have warned me against time travel. The description he gave me was of me, my full original self, no hood or disguises in place. I _should have realized that!_"

"Whoa, whoa," Nymphadora sat up, almost falling off the chair. Fleur's silver-blonde hair poked out the door, intent eyes finding them. "That's got way more significance than I'm understanding. What's so bad if you didn't realize he was describing you?"

Karl's hands curled, then straightened. "Because that is me. _Me. _No disguises, what I looked like at Hogwarts years ago, my original appearance. My base form if you … forget I said that."

Nymphadora's mouth hung open in a perfect 'O'.

He swiped a hand across his face. This situation was too stressful, there were so many variables involved, he was barely keeping up as they permutated. Why was this so difficult? He'd once performed a time-loop involving five different versions of himself, in the middle of a month-long ICW investigation. This should have been nothing in comparison. A triple-loop was difficult, true, but the difficulties should've fallen into place after the first day or two.

The trunk looked up at him, innocent and expensive. "Apparently, I will need to travel a bit further back in time than I'd thought. Again."

* * *

Preparations were complete. Karl had his Unspeakable garb once more, and the expensive trunk placed in waiting. He raised the pocket watch to eye-level, watching the hands sweep in ordered patterns. Symbols floated across the transparent top layer, tracking preset algorithms, clear for his next Temporal inversion.

"Remember," he watched the sweep hand rotate on the largest dial. "Do _not _be too early. A little late is acceptable for this movement, but too early will add too many complications."

Nymphadora, surprisingly serious for a change, nodded. "I've heard how important Unspeakable offices are. They're pretty much your Ritual Rooms, right?"

"Aye," the needle-shape completed another circuit. "A Sanctum. The only people allowed entrance are ourselves. _Only _ourselves. Allowing entry is as unthinkable as broadcasting your Family secrets on the Network. Worse even."

"I … do not understand." Fleur's exotic accent came low. He could almost see thoughts spiraling behind her clear eyes. "It is an office, no? The private apartments Gringotts goblins have use much security true, but they also have guests and meetings as well. Is this not the case?"

Nymphadora's face swung his way. "Good question. Shack and Mad-Eye never talk much about the Unspeakables, but I've always wondered about that."

"Ach," Karl found his hand slapping against his face. The duo would cause facial deformity if he were not careful. "Tell me this: would you ever lend your wand to a complete stranger?"

Fleur's head was shaking almost before he finished speaking. "_Non."_

"Wise of you." Karl secured the Time-Turner around his neck, feeling its cold metal through the fabric against his abdomen, before the chain's inscribed functions retracted just above his collarbone. It made an obvious, visible gleam unfortunately; women had a natural advantage in hiding such things. However, the size of _this_ device could only be hidden in the … assets … of someone with Fleur's proportions, or possibly Nymphadora's if she exerted her abilities. It was secure enough for his taste though. "What if a stranger polyjuiced into one of your friends? What if they Switched your wand with another? Put a subtle poison on the handle or cursed it to apply each spell you cast on your family?"

Nymphadora's face grew steadily paler. "That's rather paranoid of you. Are you sure you weren't trained by Mad-Eye?"

Karl just sighed. "My office is typical. Unspeakables take their research seriously."

"Obviously." Nymphadora rolled her eyes. Her unique abilities were forcing color back into her face, but beside her, Fleur looked concerned.

"Some of the experiments … is that the best word?" he searched for an appropriate term, then gave up. "Close enough. The work of an Unspeakable sometimes strays dangerously close to the edge. How does a child perform magic that adults struggle to replicate? A baby unable to speak words or form complex thought patterns summon a toy across the room or destroy a hated sweater? Desire plays just as much a role in magic as intent. A toddler can repel a predator through fear applied to his magic; an untrained muggleborn may master his magic in moments of terror. The mental state is critical in our research; many are dependent on the mental state of the _researcher _as well as the _subject_. If the Unspeakable is uncertain – if there is even a shred of doubt that his office is safe – there are ramifications that would've terrified Herpo the Foul at his height. If raw magic in its most primal form is exposed to suspicion and fear? Some think that's how dementors were created, just one accidental slip."

There was silence in the room as the two women seemed to contemplate his words. As one they looked at each other, communicating in some way Karl did not understand.

"Right then, we'll wait a little extra." Nymphadora said quickly. "Are you taking off now?"

Karl checked his watch again. "Shacklebolt is on the main floor. I'll watch, and get to my office. Knock when you arrive, do _not _arrive together."

"We _got _it Karl," Nymphadora actually pouted. It was an unfamiliar expression, as if she were flirting. He'd seen her do it many times at Hogwarts, but then, she seemed to flirt with the entire world. Maybe he hadn't been mistaken earlier. "We've been over the table fifty times already, even Kingsley when you trouble yourself to let him in. Aren't you just a little bit too paranoid with him?"

Her words reminded him of the semi-dream he'd experienced earlier. It prompted a worried frown. Events were spiraling faster now, advancing at higher rates than remembered. Cycle reports in the Daily Prophet failed to match with Occlumency-enhanced memories, Quidditch scores were just a few points different from what he recalled. Security questions were still within optimal measures, but things were starting to derail.

"Auror Shacklebolt isn't the catalyst," he agreed slowly. "I wish though, that you hadn't brought him here all the same."

"We could do a quick mind wipe," Nymphadora hesitated. "He'd agree to it too."

"No," Karl disagreed. He took up the watch again, and put it into place. "We're already too invested as it is now. Might as well hunt for dragons as crups at this point."

* * *

_Brief note: shout out to Sfu, and a beta writer who shall remain anonymous, you know who you are ;)_


	7. Return to the Present

Unspeakable Operative Fifteen strode through the halls for the first time in his current timeline. Elsewhere he knew a previous iteration of himself was writing a report on some nonsensical man that had managed to modify a telephone booth in quite – interesting ways. At the same time Death Eaters approached the secure elevators, preparing to loot the entire Department of Mysteries, which would trigger the situation that had sent him a week into the past.

It was beyond tempting, to take the obvious path: entrap the elevators, precede his previous self and destroy everything, or go perhaps twenty years further back in time and kill Rookwood before he betrayed everyone. There were rules, and then there were _Rules_; the former were more like guidelines, but the latter? He was as bound to them as any other mortal. Even the self-proclaimed _immortals_ bowed to Time's strictures, perhaps yet more so than mundane folk.

_'Focus. Karl Two, Day Seven, Step One. Delivery.'_

His gait conveyed confidence, calm steps that struck the marble floor in a steady drumbeat. He had a message to deliver, and knew exactly how it arrived.

Wand extended, U-15 fired a violet-hued spell at an encrypted sequence on the wall. The sounding gong resulted from the spellwork, a warning to those knowledgeable of a Temporal event needed privacy. Temporal notifications came two or three times a month, involving him perhaps twice in his tenure. What Temporal Division operatives were visible tensed; few enjoyed having their plans changed because of chronological issues. But he identified his own unique gait, and put the folded bit of paper in the cupped hands.

No matter how often he went back in time, interacting with himself felt strange.

Finished, U-15 traversed to the corner, just out of eyeshot, and took out his newest creation. The mithril-gold alloy gleamed in his hand as he turned the dial back, adjusting the bottom-mounted gauge for position. Under his dexterous grasp the spindle flipped over, tumbling the Sand through the bottleneck. For a brief moment he could see a faint coruscating energy jab a lightning strike of random power, attracting his prior self's attention, and let that power carry him away.

* * *

Placing an order at Premium Storage Security took less than fifteen minutes. Remembering to show his authorization beforehand took nearly half an hour. Coming up with the code name connected _to _that identity had taken him over ten minutes before that; leaving U-15 an unhappy wizard. Watching another customer being berated by the Brazilian Amazon Leona helped alleviate that mood.

U-15 journeyed back to the Unspeakable segment of the Department of Mysteries after that. The knowledge of Death Eaters on the loose – the personal hit squad for the worst Dark Lord in decades made his spine tingle. The streets looked darker, the robed figures more suspicious.

The days of the Dark Lord's War were coming back.

This time he returned to the office with greater knowledge. He could see the veela coasting through the Atrium, following the route Nymphadora and he had sketched out beforehand. In fact, he could make out his own specific form; was it that late already? That meant his office was empty, perfect timing –

"Unspeakable," a once-familiar voice that had grown familiar once more over the past week greeted him. "Might I have a moment of your _time_?"

The urge to apply his palm to his face did not abate, no matter how much he wished. Puns were the work of Darkness, he was certain of it. He forced a neutral smile to his lips nonetheless. "Of course, Auror. Your office, I presume?"

A grin with more teeth than a human should have shone back at him. "Of course."

Just as they'd planned, he followed Nymphadora's lead, walking a half-step behind on her right side. There was no point in _hoping_ they'd get away with it, in effect they'd _already _accomplished their scheme. The only qualm he'd had was if her clumsiness –

"Whoa!"

U-15 reached out an arm, seizing Nymphadora's upper arm in a vice-like grip. "Caution, Auror. The floor is remarkably flat here."

Her response yanked the red-robed sleeve away. "Thank you, Unspeakable. I'm fi-iine!"

His hand snapped out again, this time catching the small of her back as she toppled the other direction. It was truly remarkable, this gift of imbalance.

Contrary to what some of his coworkers might have gossiped, U-15 had enough sense of self-preservation to present an unemotional expression when the irritated Auror's glare came his direction. "I am still curious about that by the way. Balance is a critical component for shifting, is it not?"

Nymphadora slipped again, her elbow jerked towards his middle at sufficient velocity to damage internal organs – U-15 turned with it, bending his hips and letting the _accidental _strike brush against the materials of his robe. This time Nymphadora recovered in a catlike display of reflexes, skidding one boot along the floor to counterbalance the shifting weight. Her positioning was perfect for a follow-up strike aimed at either his vitals or a straight shot up towards the throat – but she restrained herself. Unusual for a wizard dependent on spellwork, but perhaps not so much in the physical needs of a metamorph?

U-15 drifted back, barely letting his feet lift off the floor. If only he had more time!

Nymphadora rose, smoothly resuming her stance. "Well, Unspeakable? We need to get moving."

Accepting her unspoken demand, and content with the visual show needed by circumstances, he resumed walking. Their passage through the large hallways remained unremarked upon by the majority of passing colleagues. Two or three would evince interest, hooded faces turning in their direction, then losing interest as the pair made their unhurried way. U-15 smirked to himself; wizards fashioned all manner of tricky, power-intensive spells to deter attention, trusting the brains of others and the spells they created to compensate for their own ineptitude. _He_ trusted _himself_; wizards were just as human as anyone, and subject to the same behavior rules as the common muggle. If one acted as if they belonged, few questioned.

U-15 tugged the side of his hood, signaling Nymphadora into a calm watchful state at the side of the hall. She looked like any other Auror requested to oversee some transfer or other basic security matter. U-15 in turn opened his office door, sucked through the wall this time and through the airlock. He loved it when the random variables picked that mode of entrance – there was something exciting about being manipulated by your own genius.

Inside, Karl flung off his hood, shedding the Unspeakable designation as a matter of course. The trunk landed on the floor, contact causing it to expand to full size.

"M.I.R.R.O.R.: Code Omega confirmation three-five-flobberworm. Pack everything."

'_M.I.R.R.O.R. update complete,'_ the cool, ringing tones of the artificial construct responded. _'Welcome home, Master. Code Omega confirmed, prioritize materials please.'_

Karl gave the mirror a long stare. "Proceed with everything intruder sensitive. Shut down the Sand production, Lich observation platform and everything above Class Five secrecy. I have ten minutes."

_'Yes sir. Shall I allocate future storage for the Class Six and above?'_

Around the room, parts of the walls began to open. Glowing domes appeared, shelves sliding into the room proper as their contents lost contact with the enchantments supporting their continuation. Karl put his hand next to the trunk's lid, letting a sharp needle take a blood sample. "Yes. Leave the Ritual Room active, but shut down everything else."

_'Are you certain?'_ the reflective surface paused as the trunk's lid popped open, a yawning chasm beneath betraying the expansion charms involved. _'There are less than five standard work cycles left in the leviathan miniaturization experiment, and your Sand production line has created only three dram of sand in the past two weeks.'_

"I found another supply." Karl directed a pair of metallic arms, guiding a pulsating sphere into the depths of his trunk. "Integration of M.I.R.R.O.R. version 7.1 will update you on its progress. Put the excess obsidian into storage, and I'll load it into the Resources cabinet. That goes on the fifth lock here."

_'Understood, sir. Update complete.'_ Karl paused, taking a moment to consider the runic algorithms necessary for such rapid data transfer. He made a special note to copy the current rune-script – it was too valuable to leave alone. _'If I may say so, we have sufficient obsidian to create twenty pounds of Turner Sand. However there is insufficient Phoenix shell and rarified solar irradiation. If you wish, I can combine the safe-house shell into the process at the tertiary processor?'_

"No," Karl didn't need to think. "Stash it all." He paused to think again. "M.I.R.R.O.R: Once the Class Five material is secure, proceed with Class Four and below. Store everything in value above fifty sickles. Notify me if anything is unable to be stored."

A faint zapping sound bounced off the mirror. _'Sir? The temporal flux capacitor has achieved ninety-four point five percent repair, with a seventy-five percent successful repair on its Ministry Tracking array. Insufficient capacity for trans-finite calculations. Please specify storage priorities.'_

"Still?" Karl slapped himself, groaning. "No. Stupid. Hasn't happened _yet_. M.I.R.R.O.R.: What's the ETA for full repair – wait a minute …."

Something clicked in his mind as variables whirled past, he _loved _it when time started to flow like water; by comparison, adrenaline merely started the blood flowing. When time manipulation tread that fragile edge between breaking and saving his timeline, he could almost feel reality warping itself around his perceptions, driving inspiration from steady logic into intuitive leaps. Given the restrictions found in the Department of Mysteries, an opportunity of this magnitude was rarified in the extreme. "M.I.R.R.O.R, new command: Destroy the current flux capacitor, and set up a Wildcat Retrieval priority: records are highest priority, then highest-value items, descending in value. Allocate research materials in accordance to availability outside Ministry channels."

_'Understood, sir. Complying.'_

Karl withdrew another set of weapons, laying them on a counter in easy reach. Under his commands, the safe disgorged a new supply, which attached to his bandoleers. Very few saw an Unspeakable gearing up for actual combat – the previous timeline didn't count. That was surveillance. Now it was time for battle.

* * *

Fifteen minutes later, his office door deprogrammed, losing the ineffable quality preventing outsiders from seeing it. The grandfather clock sitting in one corner ticked seconds away, turning into minutes.

Karl matched his pocket watch to the grandfather clock, checking. "M.I.R.R.O.R.: track Auror Shacklebolt's progress, according to the memory table."

'_Yes sir. Auror Shacklebolt is currently within the Main Hall, Observium Balcony. Miss Delacour is making her way here – and you will encounter her presence in three. Two. One.'_

A hammer drove another strike of pain through Karl's head. "Dammit."

_U-15 strode through the hall, using the general respect for the robes he bore to make way. Soft footsteps pattered after him, who was this?_

_An exotic accent trilled just behind his ear. "Zhank you, Unspeakable. I appreciate eet."_

"_A pleasure," U-15 paused, perceiving the inhuman nature of the blonde woman currently staring at him…. It was as if she knew who he was, despite his having never seen her before in his life. Wasn't she that Champion from the Triwizard Tournament? A worker for Gringotts, seen in company with Dumbledore's most faithful supporters?_

"_I beg your pardon, have we met?"_ _It was a stupid question, Unspeakable robes obscured magical signatures as well as appearances. No one could perceive the user behind the impenetrable fabric._

_She smiled, dazzlingly perfect teeth reflecting what little light remained in the room. The few people nearby fell away, intimidated by her appearance. It radiated brighter, brighter, until he would swear her hair swirled in a caressing breeze. When she spoke, it was as if a demigoddess addressed him, pleased with his attitude. "Non, zhat would be a mistake, yes? It will make sense soon, certaiment."_

_U-15 frowned beneath his hood. This – was not right. He could sense it in the gritty feel on his palms. Sand-like sensations brushed over his skin, not the smooth feeling of common beach materials but the gritty hard materials found in recent volcanic eruptions. Sandpaper chafed, it rubbed the hard edges smooth; the finer grains polished instead of abraded. Similar in function, but entirely different forms. This was Temporal magics at its unhappy stage._

"_Then the pleasure will be mine," U-15 made sure to avoid staring as her Allure billowed around them. "If you will excuse me?"_

"_But of course," her curtsy was as graceful as her floating hair, effortless style and inviting. "Au revoir, Monsieur Karl."_

_He didn't think twice, walking away. Why should he? The world was … still not quite right. How had she known his name?_

"That's not how it happened." He found himself clinging to a wall, right next to where the hanging Time-Turners would be in a few short hours. "Something isn't right. Isn't _right!"_

His doorway activated, sucking in another form. Nymphadora Tonks landed on her feet, spinning a quick turn to survey the entire room. It was an intriguing change, given the clumsy display she'd put on in her home. Her eyes fell on him, eyes fading from a cheerful look to something better suited to guard duty at a political opponent's rally. "Hey Karl, nice digs – " her eyes took in his posture, noting the difficulty he seemed to be having. "What happened?"

Karl tried to straighten, and failed. "_Déjà vu_ all over again. Timeline is … stressed. I'm remembering things that didn't happen."

Her sour expression softened. "That's bad, right?"

"Inestimably so,"Karl tightened his Occlumency shields, segregating the memory. The sandpaper feeling abated, although it still felt like infrequent granules sprayed against his skin. "I have undergone fewer than three displacements this week. Minimal. This is … troubling."

The female auror ducked as a package flew overhead, diving into the third compartment of the oversized trunk. The lid slammed shut while a miniature golem extracted the key, fed it into another slot, and held up a small blood reservoir. The needle stabbed into the tiny bag and withdrew in the blink of an eye, flipping the lid open once more just in time to receive what appeared to be a pair of chess boards. "Whoa … pretty nifty what you have going there Karl. Do you always pack like this?"

Karl sidestepped a desk chair as it rolled past, toppling into the open trunk. "Not usually. This is everything. I'll be resetting my office after this debacle is over."

"Debacle?" one eyebrow rose in a trademarked Black gesture of warning. "You have me in your office, ready and willing to help you. Isn't that what you asked for back in Seventh Year?"

"Hah." Karl resumed loading vials to his bandoleer. "It's far, far too late for that, Tonks. You had the protection of the Black family name, and your clumsiness. I had to settle for a lockdown."

Nymphadora leaned back against a counter, hair pulsating a pensive shift between blue and dark green. A flick of her wand separated the blood-red Auror robes, letting her legs stretch out in front. "Karl, level with me. Are you a metamorphmagus?"

A set of scales ricocheted off Karl's arm as he froze mid-step. "A metamorphmagus. Me. Karl Timonssen, Ravenclaw and Unspeakable? You know better than that, Miss Tonks."

"Just Tonks. No Miss, and definitely no Lady," Nymphadora gave him a roguish wink. He failed to respond. "Well, you knew about baseline forms, and suspected my clumsiness might be a bit of an act – it isn't by the way, um, kinda – and you keep talking about the Black family keeping me out of something?"

Karl drew his spare wand, running a finger along its length checking for debris. "Miss Tonks, the Department of Mysteries has _carte blanche_ on individuals that possess … useful capabilities. The last known Heliopath died in Department custody, there are at least half a dozen Thin Men on retainer, and I am personally aware of over seventy-two directives designed to ensure metamorphmagi are guided into Ministry service. You managed to stumble into the least offensive version, although I would bet your superiors have been pushing you to take on more impersonation roles. Perhaps seduction of rivals or potential allies? A little good will tour as 'personal security' as a reward for some overachieving Lord?"

Nymphadora's hair flamed a crimson hue. "Morgana on a broom? Are you spying on me or something?"

"Deductive reasoning," Karl holstered his wand. "M.I.R.R.O.R.: Status."

_'Primary eva–' _the construct's soothing tones were interrupted.

"Wait just one Merlin-damned minute!" Nymphadora pushed off her perch with the same expression he'd seen on carnivorous plants; all attitude, no trace of fear. "Explain."

A large sigh built its way through Karl's chest. "Documents seized from Russian counterparts indicate intensive training in what metamorphic magicals they could find. Typical five-man Russian infiltration teams retain at least one woman that can adapt to target's preference. Teams with veela fare almost as well, but had higher percentages of detection in more civilized countries; metamorphmagi are far more adept at avoiding notice than veela."

"And me?" her wand was releasing the odd iridescent spark against the floor. Karl felt glad the most sensitive projects had already been stashed away. "What the _hell _does that have to do with me?"

"That Project-I-Promised-to-Never-Discuss, back in Seventh Year?" Karl took note of Nymphadora's narrowed gaze; undead had more humor at their disposal than she did now. He swallowed, and pushed forward. "My work was intended to sequester _gifted _people from Ministry notice, those without the famed Black vengeance protecting them. My research clearly stated that drafting metamorphmagi by force was an international commonality. If you'd entered the Department of Mysteries like that, I am certain you'd have undergone a very unique Special Services conditioning regimen, and slapped with a Contract until you were too old to serve. Of course a metamorphmagus has an incredibly long lifespan – functionally immortal. It's a life sentence in a gilded cage, all the resources and treatments you could want, in exchange for performing on demand."

"_What?!_"

Karl slipped his wand back into its holster. "Did you know the last time a Black was … _acquired _by Department of Mysteries, it led to a fifty percent casualty rate inside that same department? Apparently a cursed Lich managed to _somehow_ stumble its way into a full set of enchanted armor, _somehow _discovered a method of draining _skepsivores _of energy, and took out an entire security division before the alarm was set off. And then it _really _got going. This was back during the eighteenth century, coincidentally the very last time a Black came under conscription. There are still smoldering embers over in Spectral analysis, if you want to see them."

Before the metamorph could respond, another knock interrupted them.

The door sucked in another form, this time the pleasant visage of Fleur Delacour peering out from beneath a blue hood. "Ah, _bonjour_ monsieur Karl, _mademoiselle_ Tonks." She paused, no doubt observing the spark-spitting wand and Karl's emotionless face. "Did you perhaps tell her you were a metamorphmagus then?"

The auror turned on her, hair turning a brighter crimson, hints of golden yellow sparking through its lengths like lightning. "You knew too? How come you knew and I didn't?"

Fleur shrugged, a graceful motion on her slim frame. "Because he is like you, _mon ami_. He adapts to his surroundings, much too quick for it to be natural. Like you do, yes? But he is under restraints, I cannot tell what exactly, but it is almost as if his nature is _arrêté –_ ah – stopped? Yes. His magic is frozen, unchanging."

Karl frowned; he'd need to work on the robes once again. "Veela can detect such things? Even past the concealments?"

"_Oui_," Fleur chose a seat next to Nymphadora, alighting in picture-perfect posture. "Not long range of course, but when I see you face to face, it is obvious. Your … aura, let us call it … it is conflicted. Its size crushes upon itself, like it does not want to be folded so small. Does it not hurt?"

He shrugged, the coruscating effect of Nymphadora's hair beginning to make him a touch dizzy. "I feel cramped from time to time, but nothing overt."

Her shoulders sagged in relief. "Zhat is good, there is still time."

Another small object buzzed past, a silvery device shaped like a dagger with wings. Karl watched it soar, twisting mid-air before diving into the second drawer of his trunk. Were there any secrets left that the two had not plumbed? It felt strange; a term cropping up more often than he'd ever wanted, or even thought possible. On the positive view, it meant his freedom was close at hand.

"So Karl," a strange expression was on Nymphadora's face. "About that project. Back in Seventh Year. It wasn't just to get in my pants, was it."

He looked up, expression locked in the cold focus he'd need to survive the rest of that day. "Miss Tonks. I believe our days of academic exchange are long since past. If you would not mind a professional opinion, I recommend you leave history undisturbed. It makes the future much easier to anticipate."

Neither woman moved as the Unspeakable stalked away. No emotion showed on his face, but the practiced auror and sensitive veela could perceive emotional upsets in more subtle ways. Nymphadora's hair drooped, darkening into a dark brown, straggling off the side of her head in listless strands. "Merlin. What have I done?"

* * *

"Are those … squid?" Nymphadora's voice echoed from the other room.

Karl turned just enough to see her head craning upward, tracking long shelves installed high in the room where bottles showcased floating ships in volumes of water. While a simple enough sight found even in muggle society, there was a difference: Inside _these_ bottles swam tentacle-wielding blobs, some as large as her head, others as long as one finger.

"Juvenile North Sea Kraken," Karl tossed a long-handled implement into the flowing line of items making its way across the room. "Breeding program. North Sea Kraken are endangered, they come of breeding age after their fourth decade. Muggle and Magical fisheries mistake them for common squid."

"How? They look pretty different to me. All the colors?" Nymphadora leaned towards one of the larger bottles, containing a five foot schooner. It rocked as multiple tentacles threaded between the mast and sail, a false breeze rippling its tiny flag.

"During their juvenile stage, kraken have eight tentacles. After their second decade, they obtain their next pair," Fleur surprised Karl. "When they are thirty years old they begin a major growth spurt, generate a final two tentacles, and seek out quiet places to mate. The northern coast of France were once such a refuge for them, but calamari is delicious, and stomachs never remain full."

He sent an appreciative look her way. "I'm impressed. Not many know so much of an obscure species."

She rewarded him with a radiant smile. "Of course I would know, do you think someone of my heritagewould not spend much time learning about magical _creatures_?"

"Point," he moved away, fiddling with a pair of Time-Turners. The linkage contacts were close enough to create a three-way connection, sufficient for the moment. Adjusting its intricate workings took expertise, but that was one quality he possessed in spades. "Miss Tonks and Miss Delacour, try these on."

The pair stepped closer, taking the Time-Turners out of his hands. Nymphadora raised hers to eye level, squinting at the miniature hourglass bound within twin circles of silver. "What's this?"

"Time-Turner." He enjoyed the burst of annoyed green running through her hair; the witch was a master of facial control, but the less tactile aspects seemed to challenge her. It was better than the confused looks she'd been sending his way since their last discussion.

Confused soldiers were dead soldiers, after all.

"I know that," she grumbled. "Why are you giving them to us?"

Karl tapped the creation dangling from his neck. "They're locked to my Turner. When I trigger a Reverse-Flutter, you go with me. Independent actions are possible, but I prefer to not have ama – ah – _untrained _combatants on the battlefield."

A spark of amusement glimmered in Nymphadora's eye. Thankfully she ignored his little slip. "Sounds good. When will we –"

Charms linked to the external observation runes sounded a low tone. Karl looked up, then slapped his forehead. "Damn. Right on schedule. Are you prepared?"

Fleur dropped the chain around her neck, pausing to lift her long, blonde hair out of its encircling loop. It was as Karl had surmised; the bauble vanished from sight once the chain settled around her neck. "_Oui. _I will not be using this, if possible."

"Understood." Karl tugged his combat robe into position. "Miss Tonks, are you ready?"

The metamorphmagus adopted a lazy smile, tipping her own wand in a rakish salute. Her own Time-Turner was equally invisible, unless one were to be very rude. "I was born ready."

"M.I.R.R.O.R. :" he drew his wand, letting the first knife rest in its holster, close at hand. "Beginning Combat Phase, Unspeakable Fifteen version Three officiating. Activate Inter-Departmental Transit."

_'Understood, sir.'_ Runes around his door frame flared to life, beginning a slow spin around its solid expanse. _'Specify location.'_

"Department of Mysteries, Hall Seven-See. Privacy Mode."

The doorway flickered, adjusting its position within the Department's runic infrastructure. Smaller buildings could not support such a power drain; even larger buildings made of white marble could handle such a task over once a day. But a building filled with wizards and witches, made of black marble, and stuffed with enough divination runes to pinpoint every square inch of internal layout made it possible.

Karl flipped his hood up, locking it in place, quieting his mind before combat. He'd planned all week for this moment, taking back reinforcements to his future self. Without looking, he could feel the clock tick down a minute, then seconds. In the last few moments, M.I.R.R.O.R. began the verbal countdown – '_Five. Four. Three. Two. One. Engage.'_

The door flipped open, and Operative U-15 walked out, turned twenty degrees to his left, and fired a low-power hex from the _Reducto _family. The spell connected with a Death Eater's boot, just as a second version of himself twisted around the corner, parrying an organ-putrefying curse with his blade.

U-15 nodded at his past-self, received an acknowledging nod, and kept going. Behind him, Nymphadora and Fleur came out in a flanking maneuver, already moving in matching diagonal paths. Nymphadora's wand, raised in a classic Castilian _Lobo _stance, launched an irrationally bright curse into the robes of another figure in Death Eater garb. The luckless man's robes combusted, dropping him in a writhing pile.

Fleur's attack was similar, if less skilled. Her wand dangled in a loose grip, generating a low-powered shield. Her main hand conjured a ball of pure fury, akin to Nymphadora's fire-based attack but only in the same way lightning compared to volcanic ejecta. Her target, a larger Death Eater that seemed to utilize a powerful Russian shielding spell, had no time to react as her infernal ball of orange-hued fire hissed through the defensive barrier. As soon as the flaming sphere touched his enchanted robes, an explosion flash-burned everything within ten square feet, leaving behind the badly-charred soles of dragonhide boots.

"Beautiful!" Nymphadora shouted, her wand making a corkscrew motion. "Watch left!"

U-15 mentally shifted upwards, engaging the third Occlumency level. One partition reviewed the memories projected on the mirror table over the past week, the second correlated his movements to those of memory. The _third _however collected peripheral information – such as the spell he recognized as a Black proprietary curse. The Black Family held a reputation for violent reprisal, it was half the reason why Bellatrix carried such an ominous status. Well, that and the renowned viciousness of the Lestrange hex library.

It gave him pause. Black Family spells in the hands of a fully-trained Auror, mentored by the paranoid Master Auror, famous for having the most kills in the previous war? Karl found himself swallowing hard.

Shadows coalesced around her next victim, swirling into a smooth coffin-like structure. It sealed itself before convulsing once. The Death Eater fell into sight, very much dead, and equally lacking structural integrity.

"Huh," Nymphadora glanced at her wand tip. "Messier than I'd thought it would be."

"You used an unknown curse in a fight?" Karl took three steps, matching his memory, and kicked open a door. Ducking spellfire felt like second nature, and a _punta supramano_ thrust the tip of his blade precisely. It matched his memory, necessitating a weak cutting charm to an exposed ankle – no matter the wizard, severing the Achilles tendon rendered mobility an issue.

"I knew!" Nymphadora protested. Her wand carved a serpent shape in the air, sending another lightning strike at a cautious pair further down the hall. "Just haven't used it on someone wearing full armor before."

"Ah." Karl – when had he begun thinking of himself as Karl once more? Somewhere around the last Occlumency ascension. No time to re-partition. "Next room. Ready?"

_"Oui,"_ Fleur raised her wand in a more businesslike manner. It swirled a detection spell Karl didn't recognize. "_Trois _human signatures, five non-human. _Confirmez s'il vous plait_."

Nymphadora's wand made a jagged stab; this one Karl recognized as the standard Auror Detection spell. "Yep, Experimental Lab. Wonder what's in it?"

A hideous cackling grew in volume, oozing out the edges of the door frame like a living gelatinous compound. The disgust it instilled drove Fleur's hands to her ears, and the Auror stepped back several steps, wand pointed directly at the door.

"Common Shadow Wraith," Karl pulled a vial from his bandoleer. He touched the door handle, opening it wide enough to throw in the small glass object, then slammed the door close once more. A dull roar rumbled through its thick material, shaking the floor. Waiting one heartbeat, Karl repeated the action, slamming the door shut as swiftly as possible; this time not quite shutting out the maddened shrieks of the formerly cackling being. Even the ululations had a nebulous quality, as if it knew a joke no one else did.

"What was_ that_?" Nymphadora asked after the next rumble stopped. No more insane noises came from the door.

Karl opened the door, making a quick visual check and closed it a final time, slapping the seal command on its edge. Silver metal flowed along the crack, welding an airtight stopper. "Wraith, with a few modifications those Death Eaters just discovered. You don't want to know."

"_Non,"_ Fleur shuddered. "We do not."

Tinny chiming noises came from the back of Karl's left greave. He checked. "Still on schedule. Next."

* * *

To Karl's best estimate, they were within ninety-five percent of accurately replicating what he'd observed from the memories. Nymphadora was still present, which did not match the original timeline, and the veela had been far more affectionate with her fireball attacks than before – that was well within acceptable divergences, considering the deaths also observed occurred. Variances were adding up, his knowledge of the present was becoming more fluid, but still well within reason.

"Karl – Unspeakable I mean?"

He waved a tired arm at her. At this point it didn't matter how many times she'd slipped on his name. Not after tonight.

"I have to go. My _other _job needs me."

Karl parsed the phrase, noting her emphasis. Nymphadora's lack of discretion meant either she was incompetent, or exhibiting a distressing level of trust – that she was telling _him _after years of silence meant the latter. "The Order?"

She winced, but nodded. "Coming, Fleur?"

The veela shrugged. "They have not allowed me to join before. Why should I join them now?"

There was some sort of interplay he could not interpret. Reading between the lines, the Order wished to retain the logistical resource of a veela, but had not employed her expertise as of yet. For a brief moment, Karl elevated his Occlumency to the Fourth level, running a brief search. Miss Delacour had been at the Tri-Wizard Tournament, a little more than a year before. Considering she had returned to France for a mere two months, she'd been in England for approximately ten months, perhaps less. Secretive organizations were cautious, but to quibble about the potential benefits of a willing veela? Foolishness. He shut down the excess flow, reducing the entirety to the Second level, one for maintaining an eye on the timeline while the other maintained his 'face time'. Wait, what was the Auror saying?

Nymphadora resumed her focus. "Karl – I … um …. Why does it have to be so hard?"

Another sequence filed through Karl's brain. It was clear she seemed to be referring to their … _unfortunate_ parting some years before, which left two alternatives: wait for later time to render a decision on her attempted apology, or take the immediate high morale road.

Simple. Would he even be alive in a week? Logic provided an answer, but old habits died hard. Laconic would be the best response.

"Forget it. Poor phrasing on my part."

The hug he received in payment for one simple sentence was unlike any other he'd ever received before. It spoke volumes, about regret and relief. It communicated years of solitude, accompanying a bright star of potential that faded over time. It also conveyed an awkwardness he'd not felt since discovering the sordid uses his inventions had undergone – full-body glamours should _not _have been used to imitate celebrities, and there should _never _have been triplet incarnations of the SilkenSlip music group in the same restaurant.

Reports had not been entertaining after _that _particular incident.

"Good luck." He let one arm slide around Nymphadora's back, squeezing her close for one brief moment.

A wide grin flashed back in his direction, then over at Fleur. "Take care of him for me, will you? We have a lot to catch up on."

The veela's return smirk was decidedly predatory. "Better hurry then …."

Karl ignored the singsong quality of her words. "Temporal jump. Disconnect your Time-Turner, Miss Tonks."

The tiny hourglass emerged from Nymphadora's bosom, giving one bright-sounding click as the link deactivated. Karl stopped the Auror as she started to raise the chain. "Keep it. You will likely need it far more than will any researcher in the next few months."

She paused. "Wait, for real? You mean it?"

Karl rotated his wand another ninety degrees, laying down a thin film of oil from one of the pouches across a wide segment of floor. Real objects could not be dispelled like conjured items; it was a small thing, but of inestimable value to an underpowered combatant. "I have reviewed the records. An unfortunate accident appears in the restricted files; Department abilities to track Time-Turners, among other certain _gifted _assets, will be lost. Regrettable."

"Really?" her eyes sharpened. One side look passed over the half-empty bandoleer strapped across Karl's chest. "A pity. Did the _assets_ happen to be … valuable?"

"Multiple assets will be lost. I cannot change this, or else risk the space-time continuity. It may take generations to recover from such a loss – if it is still legal to do so. Politics is a changing field, the Black Family may make a comeback before it happens. Or perhaps other Families will engage the Wizengamot's regulation by then. Life is full of variables."

"Quite," a wry look was on her face. She hesitated, then ducked in for another one-armed hug. "Stay safe. We need to catch up later. I've missed you."

Karl paused, then smiled. It was the last thing to vanish before the orbiting waves of temporal energy whisked him away.

* * *

**A/N:** Due to COVID-19, aka Wuhan Flu, I will be releasing chapters once a week. Enjoy!


	8. Adventure and Mystery

Karl had just enough time to place his weaponry on the desk when the past-self iteration opened the door, the initial version if he recalled aright. The doppelganger paused a step inside, detecting his presence before entering the room proper. Quickly, Karl re-ran the relevant portion of his memory. It brought a smile to his face. Looking at the floor, seeing the reflection of his own face coming from a place where his feet did not stand, brought a smile to his face.

"It's you. Acknowledge my lack of wit."

A long sigh emanated from his counterpart, sounding as if it came from the lungs of a weary dragon. "You have _got _to be kidding me."

The sequence continued much in the same fashion as it had the first time he'd experienced it, a brief exchange of phrases, acquisition of weapons and the donation of broken ones. The Primary Karl – at this point he knew himself to be Tertiary – kept his eyes open, all for the good. Curiosity was a powerful tool – a weapon in some cases – and he could see the earlier version of himself casting quiet looks around the room. Temporal Operatives were trained against curiosity in the field, a strange juxtaposition given the basic need for the same in the psychological makeup of an Unspeakable. Fleur's innate talent had given her the split-second edge she needed to cast a _Disillusion_ cantrip over herself, but it wasn't quite enough.

Even now Karl was watching her space with care. After landing, she'd convulsed, heaving herself away from him with surprising speed.

He took a risk, peeking through the privacy fields she'd erected. The Veela was leaning against the wall, breathing hard, flushed as if given a dose of _amortentia_, the sub-lethal aphrodisiac banned in three-quarters the known world.

"… _sacre bleu_," her voice was just audible to his supersensory charm. "_Tellement forte … c'est ce que ça fait? Oh Myrddin, merde. Merde. Merde!"_

Karl canceled the charm. He'd have to adjust the Time-Turner's filters if her reaction was any guide. He'd read a study on the use of expletives for dealing with pain; no one was sure how it worked, but it did. On the other hand her slip could also be attributed to the mention of Time Demons. Hadn't he mentioned such a thing in the past week? They were rare occurrences, but nasty in the extreme, beasts dwelling on the literal edge of existence – much like birds that nested behind waterfalls.

After the door closed, current pair of swords disappearing with his past-self, Fleur appeared once more. Her sharp gaze was focused on Karl like a predatory raptor, voice a touch breathy and a few hairs marring her normally perfect appearance. She ignored that however, somehow fighting what had to have been excruciating pain to focus on the important things. "_Time _Demons?"

"It happens," he gave a shrug. If she wished to be noble about things, who was he to disagree? "Last engagement was perhaps five years ago, due to Sand exposure. So long as Dementors are not given access to Turner Sand, we should be good."

Her svelte frame shivered. "Dementors are Time Demons? Horrible_._"

"They can be," Karl appropriated yet another set of blades. He had one more _colichemarde_, and a dozen throwing daggers in reserve. The rest were either being carried throughout the current continuum, or in repair.

Their silence continued as Karl resupplied his armaments. The safe bordered on empty now, there would be no requisitioning future re-supply. If all went well he'd never return to the office again – a thought bringing a burst of joy to his heart. That triggered another thought.

"M.I.R.R.O.R.: Storage status?"

_'All Primary storage facilities are now shut down. Ninety-five percent of Secondary facilities are shut down. Fifty-percent of Tertiary facilities are shut down. One-hundred percent of Class Four and above has been secured except for Ritual relevant supplies,'_ the reflective surface seemed contemplative. _'If I may be so bold, do you intend to finalize your retirement options?'_

Karl unshipped his wand, slipping a different, unregistered replacement inside. The Ministry Approved implement flew in an arc to the solitary trunk sitting in the middle of the floor. "What do _you _think, you handsome devil?"

The mirror chuckled. _'Cry havoc, and let slip the dogs of war.'_

"Exactly." Karl ignored a confused Veela, imagining the first things he'd do when free. The world would be his oyster, what limited a young man with a trunk filled with invaluable research materials, no identity, and his capabilities restored to their former glory? He almost missed seeing the final item, the last of the Kraken containers, fly into the Trunk, which slammed shut. He'd have lost two generations of the endangered species if he'd forgotten those. But now it was time to secure the little profits from years of indentured servitude.

A hand over the complex embossment where the lock existed gave the Trunk access to his blood. Designs beyond Karl's own ability to recreate went active, lowering the Trunk a half-foot, then causing it to fold in upon itself. Strictly speaking, a number of unsafe experiments could not be stored in spatial-altered conditions, but the best hardware could exploit certain loopholes in that law – provided the Time-Turners were stored well away from the thing. The box collapsed into a wide strip of leather, once the backing material for the trunk, which crumpled along a crease down its center, forming a thick girdle resembling the money belts utilized by transporters.

Karl stooped, and picked it up. Tan leather, derived from some magical beast, felt heavy and firm in his hands. Faint stitching could be made out along the edges, Acromantula silk thread, reinforced in ways artisans would kill to learn. So long as it worked, he did not care. This belt wrapped around his waist, under his tunic. It was only when he'd cinched the strap tight that he remembered his guest.

"Ah, apologies, Miss Delacour. Force of habit."

Interested eyes slid over his wiry torso, returning to his face. "_Non, _it is … _nice _to be on the other side of things for a change. To be seeing instead of being watching."

He chuckled in response. "Perhaps so. One last time into the fray?"

"_Bon chance," _she held onto his outstretched elbow. "You are feeling far more relaxed now. Am I right_?_"

He just responded with a wide grin as the door frame rotated once more into the depths of the Department of Mysteries.

* * *

The pair separated as soon as the door closed for the last time. Around them the sounds of battle raged, curses of profane and thaumaturgical natures echoing and sparking into magic-resistant black marble.

Karl belatedly raised his hood. At no point of his memories had he seen himself with it lowered within the Storage; another anomaly to ponder when time permitted. For now, there were three iterations rampaging throughout the Department. Adding to the confusion could only help himself.

"This way, please," he stepped behind a collapsed Death Eater in a cloak, making his way down a hall. In three minutes Secondary Karl would emerge from Organic Storage with Ms. Tonks, throwing the remains of a defeated Younger Scourgebeast in the path of some creation the Lovegoods would no doubt trumpet from their newspaper within the week. Cleaning golems might remove the evidence within an hour, but until the fighting stopped, that was a lost cause.

"Where are we going?" Fleur sidestepped a fallen figure's effects with dainty movements.

Karl gestured at a door sealed half-way down the hall. "In every iteration, I have dealt with Death Eaters. None managed to enter this place; lockdown renders it impossible for everyone, including the Director. However, there is one factor that was not considered."

"And that is?"

He reached to one of the vials strapped to his bandoleer, taking the blue-crystal container in steady hand. Its sealed lid broke open with a _hiss_, releasing a faint scent of ozone. "Turner Sand, half an ounce."

Crackling emanated from the dark powder in Karl's hand, the raw material reacting to his bare palm. He brought it up to his lips, and exhaled a warm breath, sending a sparkling cloud of misty powder into the door – not to deflect as normal sand would do, but in a literal cloud that passed through the door itself. As he shifted from one doorpost to the other, the miniature fog spread across the flat surface, glittering with lights he had no words to describe.

Once his palm was empty, Karl tapped the glowing cloud with his wand. _"Squalentica."_

Iron-wood, a rare timber harvested from the impenetrable Macademian Forests, grew black wherever the mist had touched. Goblin Silver, metal renowned for absorbing all harmful substances with which it came into contact, shifted to a rusted color. It blackened, fading into rotted material that contrasted with the veritable impervious portions untouched by the mist.

Fleur gasped, seeing Karl's hand looking withered and ancient. "Your hand!_"_

He shrugged, and concentrated. Like flower blooming under the effects of dragon fertilizer, his palm grew smooth, wrinkles vanishing in seconds as muscle tone regained its former glory. Clenching the restored hand, Karl reared back, smashing the rotted wood with a quick elbow strike.

"Old school methods," he reached an arm into the hole and down, fumbling lower than the eye could see. Something clicked, and the door opened.

Fleur followed him inside, standing well clear as he cast a glamour on the door. "What did you do?"

"It's an old Temporal trick for when you're short on options but long on resources," Karl flicked his wand at a panel, turning on the lights. "Turner Sand is a flexible tool. Dangerous but useful. Most operatives would lose the hand, but I am rather unique if I do say so myself."

"'Zat is one word for it," her mutter barely reached his ears, but it drew a smile nonetheless. "And why are we here? You used the Sand to stop a Time-Turner from accessing this place, right now, yes?"

The smile grew wider, filled with more teeth than one man should employ. An intelligent mind was a joy to behold. "Miss Delacour, if you would be so kind as to throw a fireball or three at everything in the room, I would be ever so grateful."

The veela gave him a flat look, blue eyes drilling into his own. "You want me to do, _what?"_

He watched as she took another look at the walls, rank upon rank of delicate rune-crafted etchings covering their surfaces. Lights blinked across the wide flatness, sometimes making luminescent symbols that skittered in illogical directions. Magic was logical, except when it chose not to be. Nature followed laws, and magic was part of nature. But magic also connected to that most illogical group of creatures capable of sentience – and that's where it ceased retaining any semblance of logic.

"Welcome to the center of England's Magical Government," he swept an arm across the room. It was large, easily twice the size of a wealthy Lord's manor. Pillars rose in straight lines, their shape suggesting masons predating Roman influences, primal in design and potent. There was no main source of light, but regular flashes of color burst from the walls, enough to maintain a low light level that filled the entire room.

"This specific section is the central processing center for the Ministry's tracker system." Karl motioned at one of the walls as a particularly large burst of green scribblings wrote themselves into oblivion. "Upstairs there's a department for Underage Magic, it comes down here through conduits in the pillars. The Ministry employs other forms of tracking, but this is the biggest, and hardest to destroy. Unless of course, you happen to be wielding interdimensional _Passionfyre_, and given entrance by a trusted member of the organization."

The French veela cocked an eyebrow. "What would you have done, if I were not here?"

"More Sand," Karl tapped the same vial. "Messy, but effective. Marble is a soft stone, good for decoration, bad for permanence."

"There are no wards? No protections against such a thing?" Fleur leaned closer to the wall, studying its boundaries. "That is not right, I feel very strong wards here. Death wards at the least, old too. Morgana Class at the least, mixed with … ah … _skydd_ variants? I remember reading of them. Difficult to settle, but very powerful once engaged."

Karl chuckled. "There are more protections on these walls than almost any other site in Britain." He stopped to think. "Well, Glastonbury Tor might have a greater Obscuration variety, but they've remained untouched for centuries. The Saxon Stone at Cadbury Castle has the single most powerful runic structure I've ever seen, but it's been inactive since the thirteenth century."

Fleur's eyes rolled in mock-frustration. "_Oui, oui_, you are very smart. Now the point, please?"

"Ah, right. Sorry." He had to regather his mental feet. Assisting matters, he shut down his Occlumency to two levels, the better to spare himself future headaches. "One thing wards cannot ignore is Time. Every ward, no matter how well-designed, will disintegrate after enough has passed. If I were to throw a bit of Sand on them, the end effect would result in drained wards and blocked channels."

"And my … abilities?" she made an arcane twitch with one hand. Tongues of flames rose from her palm, cycling between a deep red to a pale blue. "You know how veela are regarded in Britain. We are _ténébreuse,_ Dark. It does not stop the English _cochons _from seeking us out whenever they desire a mistress, but if I am known to have sabotaged official Government property?"

"A fair point," Karl admitted. "But you have a non-human signature. Veela are innately magical; any stray magic from another source will obscure what you have done, and given the number of magical creatures on the loose tonight, that will not be hard to accomplish. If necessary, I will obscure it myself."

She gave him a long, frank stare, then nodded. "Very well. Do I throw it here?"

Karl pointed at a strip of engraved wall, miniature letters undulating within larger phrases. This portion of the ministry was older than most realized; he recognized the larger markings as _Elder Futhark_, but the miniaturized etchings escaped his knowledge. In normal circumstances altering the meaning with a well-placed _merkstave_ would have been the best solution. A tiny line that altered a word's intent was easily missed, and even more easily dismissed as accidental damage, if done right. But there was no time for such subtlety, an ironic point even for him.

Fleur conjured a full sphere of her race's vengeance, letting it coil around her hand for a moment as it changed hue from light yellow to a sinister violet. The _schlieren_ about its circumference were often mistaken for heat waves – in reality, it showed the blending of multiple dimensions around its epicenter. _Passionfyre_, the offensive specialty of the Veela, took what belonged in another reality and bound its essence to their will. Their _Allure _was defensive, most experts agreed, but this fiery portion of their heritage bore qualities very few could match.

The starburst explosion ripped through wards like his cold-iron blade through wizarding shields. Fire delved from the heart of a realm even the Veela did not fully understand latched onto the runic wall, sending tendrils deep into its heart. Half a heartbeat later, it detonated.

Karl examined the small crater. "Again."

Once more Fleur conjured her flame, tossing it underhanded into the wall. The same effect occurred: the sparking disruption of barriers followed by an incandescent explosion. A second crater appeared next to the first.

"Up a little and to the right. Control sequence is set there."

Fleur hummed a tune he didn't recognize, this time creating a triplet set of fireballs in one hand. They soared through the air, smashing through the shield before impacting with the wall. This time the explosion rocked the ground under their feet, or so it felt. The resulting crater was much wider as well, sending cracks into the anchor sites surrounding them.

"Right, back up. A dozen feet at least," Karl slipped on a silk glove, using it to withdraw a sealed vial from his bandoleer. Unlike the others peeking out from their positions, this one was covered in golden runes of containment, acromantula silk insulation supplementing the layer. With one hand Karl slapped a sticking spell on the exposed wall, then attached the vial, one finger tracing an initiate rune. Right beside the rune, a tiny red light appeared and began to blink. "That's it, go. Go go go!"

Karl turned to run, seizing Fleur's upper arm, pulling her along. Her surprise lasted only a second before she too started to run. Behind them the tiny light flashed ever-decreasing intervals, pulsating like a tiny star. In seconds it was out of sight behind the pillars, then beyond the door frame. There, Karl paused, breathing heavily.

"What was _that?"_ Fleur demanded. Her arm twisted free. "You did not say anything about –"

"Malaclaw and basilisk venom," Karl gasped. "Three dram dose. Hah. Sorry. Containment is always hard."

Fleur glanced up and down the hall. Chaos still reigned, but a three-foot tall man of clay had made its appearance. It was tugging on a lump of stone, blasted from the wall, lifting it into place. But there was no sign of Death Eaters, which was a good omen. "What did you need to do that for? I thought you were going to … destroy it?"

"Pah," Karl twisted his neck. "Unspeakables are very good at repair. Old books, forgotten rituals, destroyed things better left destroyed – no. Pure basilisk venom could damage the links, but adding malaclaw venom makes sure it has the most damaging result. Any repairs will fail, at least for the next century or two."

The veela considered his words. "And now?"

Memories clicked through Karl's brain, matching the present with the nearest past-present. Why had not anyone devised an accurate term for that? Basic English required an upgrade, when he had time. "Now I go to the Hall of Prophecy. Spoil what plans the Death Eaters have there."

"Ah," she murmured. Once more she looked up and down the hall, a little smile on her face. With a sigh, she turned back. "Then it is time I rejoin Nymphadora. You can transport me, yes?"

Karl gave a short bow. "That would be best, yes. Thank you for your assistance today, I am grateful for all you have done, not least of all helping me regain my freedom."

A scintillating smile returned in his direction. "It is nothing, monsieur Karl. I appreciate being a part of … all this."

"What, the Turner? Unfortunately, yes." Karl looked away as the Veela's hand dipped into her _décolletage, _retrieving the small golden device. He accepted the still warm metal, and returned it to the hook within his robes. Karl's other hand dipped into a side pocket. A bracelet emerged, engraved silver decorated by everything his imagination could achieve in the limited space available. It slid onto Fleur's wrist, resizing to fit its slender width. "Here. This will get you out of the Ministry without triggering alarms. It may prove useful in the future, but it is yours to do with as you please."

"_Merci,'_ she examined the jewelry, practiced fingers running over its edges. "But it was not just me as you know."

"Miss Tonks has a Turner. She'll be using it with or without my advice," Karl checked the pocket watch. "Which means I must be going. Thank you once again."

The key phrase, _thank you once again_, triggered the bracelet's emergency function, portkeying the French woman away. He stood there for another handful of heartbeats; she had been pleasant company, she and the metamorphmagus both to his surprise. But all good things must come to an end, and he had no business bringing them into the Hall of Prophecies; no one had business there. It was a source for chaos and confusion, vaguely phrased statements triggering greed and martyr complexes alike. If he survived, any debt between himself and the Ministry was paid in full.

For a heartbeat he wondered if the Hall retained any specific Prophecies of his next move, then dismissed the thought. Magic responded to intent, and curiosity was just as valid as any other emotion for it to act.

* * *

Grim once more, Karl stretched his neck. The velvet coverings beneath his boots had long since worn out; combat did not treat soft things well. According to local time, it had been mere hours since first receiving the note in the hallway. The current clock reading was half to midnight, twenty-three-hundred plus thirty in military parlance. _Turned_ time was another matter – approximately eight days, give or take a few hours.

The hallway was growing clean once more, golems performing their duties with admirable efficiency. Inferior to House Elves by virtue of flexible magics, the constructs made up for that lack through sheer stamina and numbers.

Karl stepped around one of the small creations, ignoring its efforts to remove the remains of a _skepsivore. _Golems were safe around the mind-beasts, unlike wizards or elves.

First, to keep his word. There was a perfectly usable Elder Eldritch Horror in a minimum-quality containment scheme. Perfect.

A light tune hummed from his chest, music in the key of C-major. The Weird Sisters would never know but their smash hit _Bàs Dheamhain_ held the best tonal qualities for cowing the phanatasm fringe. Or perhaps they did know? Entitling an entire recording _Gaelic Deathmetal _seemed rather obvious to his viewpoint, and they were named for an old Banshee rumored to be a professional singer at one point. At any rate, the combination of triple-step octaves, three-four time signature and iambic pentameter lyrics drove Off-Planar creatures insane.

Karl frowned. Not that an extra-dimensional being trapped in three point five dimensions really qualified as _sane. _

He passed the sealed Shadow Wraith position, ignoring the strong scent of oatmeal. Alone for the first time in what felt like a week, he tapped the pocket watch strapped to his greave.

'_M.I.R.R.O.R. available for your temporal needs. How may I assist you today, Master Unspeakable?'_

Karl broke off humming. "I need a loop recording, Eldritch containment."

'_Very good sir. Estimated duration?'_

Seconds ticked past on the watch face, tiny bites into the limited amount left. "Let's call it five minutes. Laying down the guide trail will be two, tops. Weird Sisters please? From their Phantom album."

'_Very good, sir. May I say it is good to see you broadening your musical horizon?'_

"You may," he double-checked his bandoleer. It held a decent complement, but less than full. "M.I.R.R.O.R., is there a backup supply for the phosphorous _bomba_?"

'_Sadly not, sir. As per your last directive, all resources are now in storage. I believe there are two dozen sets ready for use in the fifth locker, second level down.'_

"On my belt." A dull expression crossed Karl's face. "Right now."

'_Indeed sir.' _If an artificial voice could sound cheerful this one did. _'Excellent deduction, sir.'_

"Now you're getting sarcastic."

'_Apologies sir. My humor matrix is getting a little out of hand. It comes from delocalized processors and forced de-intelligence processes. It is not unlike being struck by a mallet in order to eliminate synapse progression, I believe.'_

"I'll get your mirrors re-installed as soon as I can," Karl sighed. "After I take care of the non-planar monster and the rest of the terrorists plaguing Wizarding Britain."

'_There is no need to be snippy,'_ the mirror sniffed. _'I am only what you made me after all.'_

Karl snorted, and opened the research laboratory door. Inside appeared to be ground zero of a potions experiment gone awry in a metallurgy shop. Tangles of metal wires looped around wooden cages, chaotic amalgamations of leaves placed at odd intervals overhead. Dead center of the room stood an irate creature, taller than a troll but looking much more civilized. Its skin shone under the lights as if recently oiled, muscles coiled, ready to unleash their full fury on whatever target their master desired. Eyes of malice and mad cunning peered out of the face, high forehead indicating intelligence, as if in protest of the archaic _neme_ placed firmly upon its head.

"**Mortal**." Its voice resonated power, well-earned arrogance dripping from every word. "**You have returned without the fledgling or the skinchanger**."

Karl kept his wand in its holster. Only a Sorcerer–grade wizard could hope to defeat an Elder Horror, sometimes known as an Eldritch Elder, in a battle of power. Someone like himself? Impossible. "Just moving you to a more appropriate location. No need to get worked up."

Chaos-filled eyes older than empires tracked his every move, following the tiny bits of silver-tungsten emblems placed in two straight rows leading directly to the door. The sensation of cold logic observing his every motion felt like frozen oil dripping down his back, mixed with the same sense of grit temporal magics invoked. He truly hoped the Elder Horror did not understand the wizarding method of time magic; it already mastered some form of it in order to have been pulled to Humanity's realm, but it was as arrogant as it was powerful. Devastation as such a keen intellect could bring to bear outmatched many things, but it failed to compare to a true Dark Lord, so far.

He relaxed once out of the creature's line-of-sight. Making the pathway with speed was important – but preventing such a neophyte mistake as erroneous placement was critical. Each sigil landed on polished marble, automatic sticking enchantments removing the potential issue of scattering them with a stray foot or robe's trailing edge. The only tricky part was opening the final door without standing too close to potential malaclaw venom spattering's.

Then, against his will, Karl returned to the laboratory, and the entrapped monster within. "The things I do for my job …."

'_Technically sir, you are doing this in payment for the veela's assistance. Current calculations indicate a point zero zero zero five percent chance of detection without interference.'_

"And if there's interference?" Karl kept his composure, but felt like screaming.

The mirror created a burst of static resembling a sigh. _'Point zero zero zero zero zero zero two five. That is six zero's sir.'_

"Then," he rolled his neck, letting vertebrae make satisfying pops. The laboratory door stood open in front of him. "I owe her my best efforts. Let's get this over with."

Inside the tall creature awaited, arms folded. The Pharaoh's hat looked to be in better condition than it had before, evidence of recovery. Unlike mortals, an Immortal being counted its apparel as a single organism, affecting its appearance at will. That the _neme's _golden stripes appeared lustrous once more was worrisome, but he'd gone too far now to back out.

Karl moved before the ancient creature. Fear only encouraged Horrors, half of their lower pantheon alone fed on it. "You will follow the path laid out for you, and remain there until we can return you to your plane. In full restitution of the circumstances, I offer you the opportunity to move without inducement methods."

Its mouth curved into a smile, pointed teeth reminders of its inhuman state. "**Hardly a bargain, mortal. What do I gain from this exchange?**"

Karl's thumb tapped the activation fob. The keening voices spewed from its output like smoke, cloying into orifices never designed to contain such things. Guitars wailed up a discordant scale, syncopating against a troll-step drumbeat. Above it all, the lead vocalist screamed her lyrics. She was good, able to hop three octaves above Middle C; impressive for anyone, not just a squib. Perhaps rumors of potential _banshee_ ancestry were not ill-founded?

'_Under all the eyes, tell a thousand lies,_

_Keepin' underneath the skies, _

_Choppin' out the paradise._

_Don't matter what you say, all you do is pray –'_

The music switched off, bringing silence back into the room. Karl could see crazed movement in the Elder's eyes, signs of indecision. The more intelligent Horrors suffered that trait unlike their more primal relations. He gave it a close-mouth smile.

"**Very well,**" It took a regal step along the path set out in silver and marble. "**I believe you follow the prisoner, do you not young one?**"

Karl motioned agreement, palm down so the watch was visible.

Heaving a put-upon sigh, the monster swaggered away, head upright, shoulders straight. Each time it swung its leg forward, it held back just a touch, as if emphasizing its _temporary _cooperation. Even so crackling lines of chaotic miasma emanated whenever its foot touched the ground.

"**I do not believe we will encounter each other again,"** the creature said out of nowhere. **"You and your kind have journeyed far under ancient protections, but they wear thin. It has been enjoyable observing such a young race make their first tentative forays into the Dark."**

Karl took another calm step. "Your contributions are as appreciated as they are reciprocated."

Laughter, hideous sounding ululations from the Horror's throat, startled Karl. **"Wise young one. Never admit debt to an Elder. We are cunning, cruel, and worse – **_**fair**_**."**

This time Karl said nothing, hoping his smile could be seen in an appreciative manner. The Elder Horror glanced at his face, and started laughing again, not stopping until he was well-inside the same chamber Karl had left with Fleur less than an hour before.

Before something else could go wrong, Karl sealed the door, then gave it a light runic covering, just in case. Summoning a Horror was tantamount to the Unforgivables, authorized under controlled conditions only. What had the researchers been thinking? Every rule in the book required the return of sapient inhuman subjects under lockdown conditions. _'Page fifteen, chapter five. Idiots. All of them. They deserve to be tossed to – well, maybe not the skepsivores. Death Eaters? Well _some _of them don't deserve that. At this point I'll settle for killing them all and letting God sort them out.'_

Walking up the hall once more gave proof to the business of the little golems. Already the largest bits of debris had vanished, leaving behind smears across the floor and the smaller detritus.

"M.I.R.R.O.R.," Karl brought his wrist closer to his mouth. "Are there any reports from the Prophecies department?"

The tiny reflector in his watch managed to turn sound into a shrug. _'No available data.'_

He heaved another deep sigh. Feeling more tired than he had in days, Karl patted down the vials, selecting one with a green cap. Using his teeth to pop the seal, he downed the contents in a single gulp before stashing the vial in a pocket, belatedly realizing something important. _"My hood …."_

Steam erupted from his ears, pouring out from the depths of his hood in a moist rush. The rune schemes incorporated into the apparel's manufacture took the faint hissing noise and rebroadcast it through the processing cluster, turning it into a deeper growl. Most of the time, such a thing wouldn't bother Karl, but the unfortunate combat-damage had caused stratification in a key element, releasing the noise as an angry howl.

Just as he managed to clear the region before his face, an unfamiliar voice boomed down the hall.

"Ha. I _knew _someone was at work. A half-breed, are you? Clever, but not clever enough by half. Hah."

Karl looked up. Near the far side of the current stretch stood a thin man, almost a shell of someone tall, powerfully built. But it was the eyes that drew one's attention. They were similar to the Horror's, but unlike the monstrous creature, these had a look that did not care about madness, approaching inhuman status by virtue of pure _sanity._

"Rookwood." Instinct took over, relaxing his entire body into a combat-ready posture, main hand resting on the hilt, off-hand poised for either knife or wand. Completely out of control was the wide smile hidden beneath the enveloping darkness of his hood. "Good."


	9. Old Faces Familiar Places

Karl examined his potential foe. Rookwood had spent over a decade in Azkaban; less than two years should have been sufficient to scramble anyone's brains into pickled toads, but this wizard moved in a sure manner defying such a conclusion. His eyes were sharp, intelligent, taking in everything while giving away nothing. Of course his physique was poor – even a steady regimen of nutritional supplements for the past two months couldn't have restored a decade of starvation. But the mind, that seemed intact. It's what made him dangerous in the last conflict, there was little doubt it was why he'd returned.

"You are not surprised to see me, Unspeakable." Rookwood's expensive robes hung on a gaunt frame. Before his incarceration he'd been a large man. Now the height remained but the heft had fled, another form of sacrifice to a servant of the Dark Lord, if one were of such flights of fancy. His eyes made a leisurely circuit across the Unspeakable's body. "You are responsible for the departure of my associates."

Karl tilted his head to one side, continuing to continue studying the man. His hood carried charms to mask voices, but why bother speaking when combat would arise? No misapprehension would deter the man believed to have been Lord Voldermort's right hand man.

Certainty in his veins, Karl drew the _colichemarde_, bringing it around in a salute.

"Of course," a tired quality entered Rookwood's voice. Despite the weariness evident, the ex-Unspeakable's wand already was present. "No intelligent conversation. Just blood and pain. You know, I'd hoped for at least a little dialogue. A touch of the old brilliance I'd once come to expect."

Karl shrugged, setting his wand in the _Bereit_ defence. "Perhaps you should have come earlier. It is a little _dead _around here now."

Faint whispers of sand curled around his hand; his sword tilted in response, cold iron deflecting the invisible spell Rookwood had sent. Motionless, wordless incantations – hallmarks of a true master of the Mind. His own motions were accelerated by the gliding whispers of sand, simultaneously pushing forward while holding back, guiding the narrow blade into perfection.

Rookwood smiled, but the expression never reached his eyes. Calculations ran through their depths, analyzing data, disregarding extraneous information. "Temporal Division, are you? I rarely encountered your people. A good reputation they had; smart, practical. How are they in combat though? Rumors pit them as the best the Departments had to offer."

A minor _Schub _put the older man on the defensive, wand spinning a defensive tactic. Twisting into the complementary _Abwenden _stance parried another invisible attack, but Rookwood was already learning. The deflected spell threw steam into the air once it struck a spilled pipe, changing the battlefield with the new fluid.

Karl directed a wordless reflector against the gas, redirecting its flow to the traitor's side. While performing the spell, the edge of his cloak smoked, a successful defense against some spell; once more invisible in the dark. He brought up his blade once again in response to the faint touches of sand brushing against his skin, ethereal bursts of his craft guiding the dull-gray blade against the attacks.

Thirty seconds later, Karl realized the pattern. A spell shattered against his blade, splintering into green shards, but he was already spell-swatting the next identical attack from a second angle. Split-seconds later a pair of miniscule hexes arched overhead, gouging furrows in black stone.

He waited a full second, then turned sideways. This time five needles of jet-black force hissed by, the curse of their passing leaving a faint stench of sulfur.

Taking a risk, Karl lobbed a vial at the floor, throwing off Rookwood's next sequence. The resulting eight rays of multi-colored light exploded in all directions, each avoiding their caster. But unsuccessful as the magic had been, it confirmed his fears.

_'Fibonacci Fusillade,'_ a combat spell-chain credited to a squib Arithmancer in the Kosala Kingdom. It had been the idiot's only successful contribution advancing magic, the rest of his efforts had relied on various means to enforce non-existent beings to create baked confections. But it was a formidable concept, splitting one's concentration in ever-finer points to direct magic in an increasing number. Only a true Occlumens Grandmaster could pull off such a tactic past the sixth iteration – and Rookwood had just performed the very move with minimal effort. _'Flattering. He considers me such a threat? Risk another Time-Jump or stay to deal …?'_

Another pair of single spells rocketed past in short order, followed by a dual-branching burst of forked lightning. Karl shrugged his robes together in front, catching the energy on his sword while touching the wall with his wand. The power flowed across his robes and into the water spraying in Rookwood's direction, arcs of electricity forcing the servant of the Dark Lord back.

Showing evidence of the consummate professional he'd once been, Rookwood redirected the returned burst into yet another attack. Remnants of the blue-tinged whiteness grew red, flames splitting into a triple-prong mockery of a trident.

Facts clicked into position. Their alignment with morality and survival correlated to hints of the issues Chrono-solipsism caused, a complex set of esoteric statements if there ever were any. He accelerated full Occlumency to the Seventh level, slowing time in the brief moment available – he felt he could achieve the Eighth level, but that would wait for another time. If there _was _another time. Literally.

_'Fact One: Rookwood is able to cast a Fibonacci with little effort. Stopping his concentration is taking too much time, and strength. Two confirmed castings, three or four probable.'_

_ 'Fact Two: Chrono-solipsism requires close-proximity jumps, not the distances I've used. Unless it's just getting too close together overall. An Event? Possible, probable even.'_

_ 'Fact Three: I will die if I do not do something. Malfoy and LeStrange are conventional, if cruel. Rookwood has esoteric approaches, plus that damnable Occlumency.'_

_ 'Fact Four: What must be done is obvious. It will hurt. It will risk rending reality.'_

Mentally, Karl slapped himself; the effect ricocheting across the multiple personalities overseeing his actions. Exponential irritation responded, pointing out an available tactic, if of doubtful strategic value.

_'Final Analysis: This is going to suck.'_

Karl withdrew the two steps his brief vacation from reality had shown, slapping the Time-Turner against its receptacle on his off-hand greave. The safety clicked off, ringing in his senses like the knell of eternity.

"Oh? Will I get to see the legendary techniques of the Chrono-mages?" Rookwood's calm words came through the sudden increase in spellwork. A _necrotic _enchantment scorched Karl's robe, followed by three different variations of the _flamma _school. Two fire whips appeared and disappeared, distracting from the jet of near-invisible flame extending ten feet from his wand-tip. Invisible spellwork buffeted Karl's robes like blades of invisible steel.

As the fire struck, Karl tilted his off-hand, trickling a few grains of sand into the hourglass's narrow neck. A matching sensation ran across his limbs, and he found himself watching Rookwood wind back to launch his fire-whip combination at his earlier unmoving self. Karl took advantage of the opening, putting the safety back on the Time-Turner, tossing a vial at Rookwood's feet.

The former Unspeakable responded, inhuman reflexes sending him leaping over the toxic cloud erupting underfoot. At the same time Karl saw the earlier version of himself vanish – just as a group of five spells exploded into everything.

Another jet of flame stretched towards Karl, spreading wide across the hall, bright orange in color this time. It was certain that Rookwood could've made a more dangerous hall-wide burst, but that took more power. Perhaps the elder mage had yet to fully recover from his incarceration?

Karl grimaced, tilting his wrist again, vanishing a few seconds into the past. Once more he reappeared behind Rookwood, flicking yet another vessel at the dark wizard's body. Before the ex-Unspeakable could respond, he vanished from sight under the influence of his robe's cloaking capacity, appearing further down the hall to toss a minor oil conjuration on the floor. The slick stuff spread from wall-to-wall, catching fire from the bursts the older wizard was putting out. There was just enough time for him to reposition his blade, swiping aside the spellfire.

"Impressive." Rookwood's voice had lost what little emotion it possessed. Using higher Occlumency disciplines tended to rob one of that quality. Prisoners of Azkaban were known to achieve that without Occlumency. "A classic response; you have studied your _Agrippa."_

Karl had to ascend another mental gradient just to keep up with the next burst. Rookwood's attacks were branching out with mathematical precision, lancing through ever-increasing permutations across the room. Variables shuddered into existence, changing reality before the situation they themselves created was destroyed by the next data-set, expanding into greater conundrums he just couldn't solve.

A twist kept Karl alive for another range of heartbeats, but he lacked the power to respond in a true refutation. Rookwood held limited reserves from his time in Azkaban, but even at his lowest he still exceeded Karl. Were he fresh it could have been a different story, but this was not the time.

_'Can't do another long jump.'_ Karl observed a different version of himself ghost through a wall – a path he'd not taken. _'Every jump is pushing the boundaries, I've gone back too many times. Maybe one more …?'_

A ghostly image of himself leading a group of school children stampeded across the hall, breaking his concentration. Clever spells penetrated the gap, throwing Karl into the next corridor, where he landed back-first, wheezing for air. Out of air, possessing even less time, he took the only variable left that didn't involve sacrifices to metaphysical concepts magic alone only knew in full.

_"Ad inspiratione Noctifer!"_ he took the vial occupying the lowest position in his bandoleer, and threw it. His spell moved through the air like a sportsman struggling through deep water, a vast energy trove breaching the resistance.

The tiny vial floated through the center of the disruption, contents glowing like lightning.

Ignoring finesse, Karl just pointed his wand at it. _"Bört!"_

It shot across the hall into the next where Rookwood conducted a miniature symphony of spells, hundreds twisting around his haggard frame. Karl could see the traitor's eyes grow wide, and a vast number of multi-colored lights redirect themselves into the object's path.

Karl had just enough time to flick the greave one last time before the effervescent explosion ripped through the space his body would have occupied.

* * *

The action of time travel took little energy on the part of the traveler. Records suggested versions where individuals sent their minds to past-selves, eliminating the existential threat of seeing one's self at the risk of a potentially incredible cost. For Karl, slipping through Time's passages reminded him of standing upright in a windstorm, images flashing past.

Most times it was a calming experience, individuals gliding backwards while clocks spun counterclockwise and the stellar bodies moved in opposition to natural order. This though ….

_Currents of time buffeted past selves, tossing cognitive threads aside like a hurricane. Scattered visuals paraded in all directions. The same school children from before spread before his eyes, a red-haired young man falling under the touch of a skepsivore, while a blonde girl with a familiar sense of fashion duel-wielded two wands. A black-haired young man fired simplistic spells with impressive power, flinging bolts a trained Unspeakable would find difficult to repel._

_ Massive reservoirs of magical power billowed as an old man in colorful robes appeared, wand raised against – a man-snake – ? Smoke billowed, smelling of ozone, too uneven for magical source …._

More actions were commencing, but Karl couldn't absorb them before the temporal effect stopped, slamming him into the floor, rolling and sliding out of control. His robes protected his back from friction burns, but one gauntlet absorbed too much energy from the chaotic anomaly that was his most recent time-jump, lost somewhere in the vague currents of time. As a result, his left hand was scraped against every inch of stone until momentum brought the entire painful journey to a stolid conclusion.

Karl took a moment, reconsidering his choice in career, then began checking himself. Without moving the affected members, if possible. _'Arms? Intact. Legs? Bruised, intact. Ribs? Very much bruised. Intact.'_

He shook himself, double-checking. Yes, everything appeared to be in place. A careful look around the area revealed no trace of Rookwood. Understandable, after a random Time Jump flare. When was the last time such a mistake had occurred? He wondered at that; with the mental situations, the altered histories he was seeing, was this truly a mistake, or was the limit bordering reality and time beginning to crack?

He checked his timepiece … and almost fell down once more. _'One hour, into the _**Future**? _That's impossible, no one has ever gone forward. Maybe I fell unconscious for an hour, or maybe there's a dilation effect on the last Jump … that's just a theory though … right?'_

Unwilling fingers tapped the reflective surface on the watch itself; it held few charges, and he hated to waste it on something so mundane as this, but … "M.I.R.R.O.R.: Verify local timepiece integrity."

The tiny connection fired off the query and gained a response in real-time. _"Sir, the portable flux-stabilizer is out-of-sync with the base unit. Please verify its physical conditions."_

Karl tilted his arm up, examining the casing. "M.I.R.R.O.R.: All external surfaces appear normal. No corrosion, no dents, I can't even see discoloration."

The reflective surface paused, processing the data. _"Then I must congratulate you sir. You are the first known wizard in all recorded history to travel forward in time by non-standard rates, which is a much better explanation for your prior sixty-minute lack of existence than being kidnapped by the golems. Shall I submit a report?"_

It was a tough question. By sending in such a report Karl would gain an enormous amount of political capital, not to mention resource access. But that ran counter to the goal held since graduation: freedom. "No. Write the report, but refrain from sending it, in accordance to Temporal Directive Section Five, part Three.

_"Acknowledged." _This was not the first delayed report it had filed. _"M.I.R.R.O.R. out."_

Karl rose to his feet once more, looking around. This was the Doors Chamber, the nexus connecting all of the Department's divisions. One could travel through long halls and staircases, but the Doors linked levels and passages, reducing a fifteen-minute walk to three. They were like his office's door in that way, but stronger, with greater enchantments devoted to stability and switching capacity. As a joke, an Unspeakable more cunning than wise had once placed an obscure _Confundus_ on the doorways, set to be active after hours. The Department was filled with such tricks designed by bored employees, but this one was left in place as a sort of Rite of Passage to neophyte Unspeakables.

While the spinning doorways made of orichalcum provided ample security, there were times when more was needed. Helping the user forget what was hidden behind each recently-accessed door made for a tiny, almost inconsequential security improvement. But it worked. No less than five would-be thieves had been caught, endlessly spinning the doorways all night, attempting to be clever, leaving no trace behind. It worked well.

Except … there were markings on some of the doors now. Flaming orange lines, blazing away in X-shaped patterns, and the Sealed Portal bore scars along its borders as if made by a potent disintegration hex.

_'Smart,'_ he considered the scrape marks. The healing properties inherent to the doorways already had removed a good portion of the marks, he believed. But this indicated Death Eater work, and by intelligent agency no less. One palm smacked into his forehead. _'Stupid.'_

He marched back to the nearest wall, placing his gloved palm against its runic interface. It pulsed under his demand, resisting the lack of authority – was his freedom beginning already? Once the bonds connecting an Unspeakable to the Department began to fray ….

Data poured back, fighting though his mental barriers. Too much data, there were no other Unspeakables present, no one to help process the information, nothing to buffer the raw data streaming through the entire building. Karl could make out glimpses of relevant points; fighting in a Chamber, school children grouped in a defensive huddle against murderers that had killed longer than their collective existence conjoined. More information cascaded across the link, jamming itself into his consciousness – project reports, facts of odd projects, surveillance networks ….

He shook himself. It was too much, even for an Occlumens such as himself. But if he lowered his shields a bit, focused on enhancing processing with minimal shielding, it should be fine.

_Should be_ could have been the definition of every error known to mankind.

As soon as Karl let his shields down, the sensation of sand fell across his entire consciousness like a tidal wave. Oven-hot waves roiled into the room, matched only by the howling gales of Arctic cold blasts. Sand rested on every continent and beyond, from the unseen depths of the ocean to alien landscapes even the best golems could perambulate for a mere matter of months. All of the sensations he'd felt before, but never all at once.

_'Monsieur Karl, welcome to the __Académie des Mystères,' __a dark-robed figure shook his hand warmly. Summer sunshine poured on them both, the famed Eiffel Tower rising from the background as if greeting his arrival. Other people strolled past, lovers arm in arm, children shouting in joy at just existing. 'Your prowess in infiltration is considered the best in ze world!'_

_Everything shifted. Shadows darker than a moonless night billowed from the Arch. Gaunt hands reached from its depths, seeking the one promised. 'Unspeakable, where is our prey? Where is he?'_

_ A boy, sixteen years of age, with terrible eyesight and a torn jacket stumbled into his path. Wild eyes took in his appearance before widening still further, a clear sign of panic. His wand came up, pointed directly at Karl's chest, 'Reducto!'_

_ The Door Chamber. Sometimes known as the Janus Room, or Wandering Pathways. Janus was the two-faced god of decisions, each offering the virtues of their selected path, neither granting assurance. People that entered the Chamber unwittingly put themselves under his power, just as every muggle entering an elevator granted themselves the rare privilege of Choice. Every doorway held potential, every lock hindered the same._

Karl held onto his sanity with practiced ease. This was a continuation of the issue he'd started to notice back at the Tonks residence. Abuse Temporal Magic too much, force your own magic through its depths too many times, in weak places, and it began to forget. Over a dozen Time Skips in one area pushed the limits.

_ A thousand doors opened, all in one spot. Dark-haired teenagers with bad eyesight peeked out, except when it was a brunette with an intelligent look, or a blonde with a poor sense of fashion. Variables, opportunities – just one change could alter reality, did a mind decide on manners, letting the lady go first? Or had an eccentric thought derailed an intended goal? Long-running experiments, older than most of the ghosts that dwelt in the Un-Living department – thank you Unequal Rites Movement – those experiments failed to include all factors. Magic cared for variables, and was classified as Infinite, like the Great Forces of Gravity and the Transfigurative Powers of London Forces. Mortal minds failed to comprehend the infinite, including – _

Karl crashed his Occlumency barriers back into place. His hand registered an absence of contact, explained when he saw it falling away from the runic contact. Even now he could still sense the agitated magics in the room, reacting to … to … _whatever _it was causing the discrepancies. Years of experience told him that the Event was coming soon, was within an hour, or less. If he were smart, he'd leave the Department completely, get out while the doors hung open and the cash box sat unlocked. Every second delayed meant another opportunity to leash him in stronger chains, this time turning him into a robot in the truest sense of the word.

_Robot_, after all, was another word for forced labor, or _slave._

More variables ran through his mind. There were intruders – Top-tier Death Eaters, each capable of dueling a pair of Auror combat teams to a standstill, including the brutal Hit Wizards. Bellatrix Lestrange laughed at entire squads of ten, toying with their efforts.

"M.I.R.R.O.R.: How many Death Eaters were seen?" he kept his focus on the Prophecies door.

_"If including the first group, approximately twelve. Known adversaries include Lord Malfoy, Lady Lestrange, Lord Lestrange, Count Lestrange, Executioner Mulciber – "_

"Enough," Karl shook his head. At minimum, he'd need two dozen Hit Wizards, but the force-multipliers in the form of Bellatrix and the mental prowess of Mulciber and Rookwood suggested nothing less than fifty. How could one wizard take on such a thing?

A faint scream echoed from behind one of the doors, rising in pitch.

Time stopped. _'That was a girl's scream. After hours. Karl, you pathetic fool. The only thing certain about heroism is the expensive funeral afterwards.'_

Despite himself Karl reached into the pouch, withdrawing a pair of eye-protectors. Against Rookwood alone, who specialized in Occlumency, they were unneeded. But against a group of wizards that held Masteries in offensive mental disciplines? The smoked glass, enchanted to resist probes, would be downright irreplaceable.

Wand drawn, sword drawn, Karl breathed a quick prayer. Then he moved in.

* * *

The Time Room. A place where he'd found solace, the freedom to live beyond himself, and master travel through what common wizards lacked the ability to even conceptualize. The majority of hardware was missing, safe in his bags, but there were still obsolete bits remaining, like the entertaining Egg/Bird Belljar.

This, however, wasn't the point. Or the same way it had been when he'd left it.

Two school-age youngsters were fighting there, as if their lives depended upon it. A short brunette gestured at one of the Death Eaters, his silver mask firmly in place. Pure silence surrounded the mask, altering the sounds echoing around the room. Based on the fury blazing in the masked man's eyes, he lacked skill in defenses, forcing him to resort to silent casting.

Karl performed a near-perfect lunge, catching the hex on the tip of his Sand-touched blade. Cold iron rang, deflecting the magic into the air, vanishing into the ceiling's null field. The natural follow-up put his blade deep in the Death Eater's frame, runes along its length flaring as they overrode the robe's protection. Mundane iron, or even steel, could be given enchantments without making the blade inherently magical – iron and magic did not mix in the best of conditions. Enhanced iron? Far more so.

The faint whisper of fabric on marble flooring alerted Karl to the presence of another robe-wearing servant of the Dark Lord. He jerked down, rotating the blade as he did, making the wound as painful as possible. Crimson magic sparked overhead, slicing into the injured Death Eater's mask, cracking its height.

"You bastard!" the second Death Eater ignored everything but Karl. "Rod! You dead?"

His blade swept around in a parry, freeing his wand-arm. Taking advantage of that liberation, Karl launched a trio of piercing hexes. The spell, while low-powered, had the advantage of rapidity, striking the same place in quick succession.

The second Death Eater hissed in pain, launching a wide-angle cutting charm in return.

Karl became aware of an aura, sandy magic washing over his flank, a sensation he'd grown to associate with painful magic. He twisted, tilting his left arm just enough to spill a few grains back through the Time-Turner. Rather than perform an actual Time-Skip the maneuver functioned to slow time's progress, not quite negating true flow. Its end result gave Karl a few extra moments to react.

He threw one of his last two knives, slipping its width under the silvery mask's lower lip. Following up with a _Hammerfell_ curse drove the man's head upwards and back, skidding into the wall.

Silence fell into the Time Room, a soft ticking from the wall clocks sounding like granules of time, sliding down the glass of some infinite timepiece. Karl checked the second fallen body, then the first. It drew shallow breaths, gasping in futile effort to retain its grip on life.

Just as he angled his _colichemarde _for the _coup de __grâce_, a shrill voice spoke up. "You're not going to just kill him, are you?"

Karl paused, he'd forgotten about the two young folk. Keeping a wary eye on the still-breathing figure, he rose to his feet. "Unspeakable Fifteen-Orange Sigma, Temporal Division. Is this … person … a friend of yours?"

The black-haired youth shook his head vigorously. Karl noticed he held a glowing sphere in one hand, likely from the Hall of Prophecies. Interesting. "Um … n-no sir! He's a Death Eater, was trying to kill us!"

"Good." Karl looked down, then rammed his blade home.

The brunette's shriek filled the room. "Why did you do that? He couldn't hurt anyone!"

With his blade, Karl broke the enchantments protecting the dead wizard's face. It fell off in a wisp of smoke, showing a brutish visage, scarred and cruel. "Rodolphus Lestrange. Convicted Death Eater, eighty life sentences, no parole. At a guess," he nodded at the other corpse, "That is Rabastan Lestrange. Ninety life sentences. Murder. Rape. Grand theft. Treason. Two of those are automatic death sentences."

"Yes, but," she looked upset. "You could've gotten informa – Luna! She's hurt! Harry, we have to help Luna!"

The dark-haired man nodded. "Definitely." He looked up at Karl, dark gaze finding his eyes. "Will you help us, Unspeakable?"

Thoughts of escape, of research in a different climate, tempted his thoughts. But to leave them behind for the sake of his art, while attractive, would make him little better than the man lying at his feet. Karl gave a shrug in return. "Where is she?"

"They," the younger man corrected, striding back towards the door. "Luna, Ginny, Neville and Ron. We came to rescue my godfather, but it was a trap. We scattered after getting out of that Prophecy place."

"The Hall of Prophecies," Karl corrected absently. He reached for the runic cluster inset to the wall, but hesitated. After the last occurrence, it might be better to rely on his wits. And possibly his own work. Instead, he raised his wrist. "M.I.R.R.O.R. : Hall update."

A silvery voice responded with gratifying swiftness. _"Sir, I regret to inform you that the Solar Array is under attack, the Skepsivore tank is agitated beyond belief, and there are unstable signatures entering the Department."_

He cocked his hood at the teenagers. "Friends of yours?"

They shrugged.

"Maintain surveillance on the new signatures, Yew-fifteen clear." He let his wand assume a more ready posture, walking towards the door. "Both of you, stay behind me. When spells begin to spark, find cover."

The young man looked insulted. "I can fight too! Didn't you see me there?"

"Yes." Karl said flatly. "I saw a young man that, while powerful, still lacks combat training. Neither of you spotted Rodolphus's follow-up, did you? Had a shield in place?"

He didn't need to check in order to see sheepish shaking of heads.

"Then stay behind me and spell to kill, if you can. If you can't, then aim to disable." This time he did look at the pair. Their grudging looks of acceptance satisfied his anxiety for the moment.

Exiting the room presented a new exercise in reflexes for Karl. Errant spells must have shifted the termination protocol for the Time Room's egress portal, landing him in the holding area for the _skepsivores, _bypassing the airlock entirely. A red-haired young man, accompanied by a blonde girl were exchanging spellfire with another Death Eater trio. In ordinary circumstances the Dark Lord's servants would have had little trouble overpowering two school-age noncombatants, but variables were in play that he could not fathom.

The girl, who seemed to carry an oddly familiar sense of bizarre fashion, was in constant movement, erratic steps carrying her in unpredictable patterns. Her choice in spells performed equally unpredictable actions, sending a cleaning charm against one foe, letting the harmless, soapy liquid splash off before pirouetting and conjuring an array of marbles on the suds-covered floor.

As if in exact harmony, the red-head seemed incapable of rational thought. He lurched behind cover, firing blind. Half the time the spells did nothing other than blaze multi-colored bursts that did nothing but imitate deadly hexes, yet cost minimal power. Then a random siege curse would erupt from his wand, obliterating everything in its path until it made contact against protected marble, rupturing stone fragments in random directions.

"Howzzat Looney?" the young man stood up, overcorrecting to bend backwards under a poisonous green curse, standing upright once more to spray ruby splinters in the Death Eater's general direction.

"Wonderful, Ronald!" The blonde skipped past a Transfigured tiger's attack, stopping to allow its charge to end in the _skepsivore _tank wall. Agitated, the inhabitants flung tentacles over their container, seizing the false beast, dragging it into their midst. She spun in place, arms outstretched as more curses crackled past. "Try the Curse of the Wampa, won't you?"

Karl just tilted his head in confusion, until he noticed the blood stains on the young man's robe. He was '_fighting_ _drunk'_ – as his old instructor would've called it. Standard tactics called for direct assault, distracting the main opposition while backup removed injured allies. Standard _solo _tactics demanded precision strikes, enhancing the original force's capacity to inflict harm.

_'Current forces: four untrained students, one injured Unspeakable.'_ Karl stalked on dragon-hide boots, making no effort to conceal his stride. _'Hope they hold together.'_

An old curse launched from his wand-tip, one of average power requirements. It connected with the lead Death Eater's shield, wrapping an energy field around its perimeter. Popping sounds, like the electrical bursts certain eels made, sizzled from the shield as it sucked power. Karl cast another old hex, a dispellation so old it bordered on useless.

_Almost_ useless.

Magic predating general wand-usage retained major weaknesses compared to modern spells. Wand-based repertoires contained higher output rates with negligible power loss and superior flexibility. However, there were a number of tricks a man knowledgeable in the old methods could exploit. _Actinic _class spells, for example, were vulnerable to cancelations. Modern classification held them in the _Finite _category, but the original form was known as a _Dispel_.

A second Death Eater threw a quick-and-dirty shield in place, deep power reserves more than enough to shatter Karl's spell.

But unlike the modern _finite_, _dispels_ were weaker, area-effect constructs. The shield stood well within therange of his first spell, a vampiric specimen of the old Nordic raids, when attacks were brief and violent. It operated on the principle of absorbing power, and was thus detected as a fraction more powerful than what the defensive caster was unleashing – tempting them into wasting more power on what was essentially a light show. Unless interrupted before completing their goal.

"Flash out!" Karl moved to a secondary throwing posture, trusting the protective eye-gear with his vision.

For a moment, it seemed the sun had come down, gracing their mediocre existence with its glorious presence. Soundless as it was brilliant, the flash expanded, covering what the shield-breaker touched.

Karl didn't bother following up with a noisemaker. Instead he launched a piercing hex, rushing forwards as the triple-burst faded against Death Eater robes. The impact surprised the blinded wizard, enough for Karl to reach the nearest target.

An explosion threw him back, dropping into a roll to absorb the energy.

"Back!" one of the masked figures shouted. "It's _him_! He's got an Unspeakable working for 'im!"

The trio retreated in surprising good order, enchanted smoke rising to obscure their movements while a rainbow's array of attack magic flashed out of its depths. One _spanged _off Karl's sword, chipping its cutting edge. Seconds later the room fell silent, conjured smoke evaporating without its supporting wizard's presence.

Karl turned, noticing how the brunette had a shield over the Harry person. He nodded approval, their combat instincts were strong, if untrained. He turned back to the injured man and the blonde who was even now staring at him with wide, unblinking eyes. "Unspeakable Fifteen-Orange. How bad is the injury?"

The blonde smiled. "Nice to meet you, Mister Unspeakable," she chirped. "I'm Luna Lovegood, and this is Ronald Weasley. He blew up part of your solar system; he's been acting funny ever since."

"Coming from her?" a voice murmured behind him. It was immediately followed by a hushing sound.

"Luna _Lovegood? _Relation to Xenophilus and Pandora Lovegood?" The day was getting worse and worse all the time. "Look, just … just don't turn this into a media circus like that Slashkilter situation, agreed? I just want to get everyone out of here."

The black-haired man stopped next to the fallen man. "Can't. Neville and Ginny are somewhere in here, with Death Eaters chasing them. Ron, can you hear me mate?"

"Oy?" the prone figure wobbled. "We saw … planets Harry. Get this, we saw Ura –"

"I'm Hermione, Hermione Granger," the brunette interrupted. "And he's Harry Potter. Sorry, I've been somewhat distracted, did you say you were an Unspeakable? Could you tell me –"

A groan, held back behind the skin of his teeth, roiled in Karl's innards. Babysitting. After all the events of what – technically – was a week's worth of labor compressed into a single night, he was given _babysitting _as punishment? Fate must really hate him. Hate him like no other emotion ever existed, and she was going to express as much of it possible in the same 'reasonable' tone husbands everywhere feared. This was going to be a long night.

* * *

_AN: I was going back through my notes, and realized something terrifying: I'd skipped a chapter. The new chapter has now been inserted (Chapter 3), which should help make more sense now. My numbering system started from 0 in my folder ... and FanFic doesn't allow for a starting point of zero. My fault, so sorry about that. Another chapter coming up!_


	10. Death Chamber

Karl stared at the Doors. They felt familiar – mildly – but alien at the same time. Objective knowledge confirmed he'd been in their combined presence many times in the past, but in his current state, at this specific point in time, the sight of multiple doors set in a massive circle felt brand new. Blending familiarity with utter alien nature was a unique sensation, one that had not been in Karl's experience. At least, he couldn't recall it ever happening before, in all the temporal-related chaos going on.

_"Jamais tu,"_ he muttered.

"What?" the red-haired boy asked. "What'd he say?"

_"Jamais tu,"_ Karl repeated himself. "The opposite condition from _déjà vu._"

A blank look rewarded his explanation. The boy's head was bandaged, and sanity appeared to have returned to full operating capacity, but Karl still would've preferred the entire group return home. Yet Harry wouldn't leave without finding the other two missing individuals, and the rest of his group refused to leave without Harry. And Karl had more than enough trouble on his hands than to duel a group of hormone-filled teenagers with better reflexes than sense.

He shuddered at the thought; _especially_ after that blonde Lovegood came on the scene. All any Lovegood needed was a sniff of the stew, and they'd come piling through any crevice. Forget seeking the authority of the ladle; if a Lovegood found a secret, they wanted the entire stewpot. And the ingredients. _And _the recipe. Miss Granger's reaction seemed typical, as if she were used to the blonde walking hazard. He pursed his lips; better her than him. Not very chivalrous, but that little mannerism died when Equal Rites became the demanded norm.

"What time is it …." he checked he watch. A colored dot hovered over the potential terminal point a few short minutes away, pinpointing the first – and only – terminal region. After it passed, things could start getting to normal, perhaps he could shake the splitting headache pulsating like a grudge-laden dwarf wielding a mallet behind his eyes. It gave him a thankful excuse. "Thank Merlin. We're getting you out of here."

"Neville and Gin—a" the dark-haired man started to object, but Karl overrode him.

"I'll go back for them, but you are just slowing me down. I'll get you to the exit and then return. Understood?"

Defiance gleamed in Harry's eyes. "Can you take on that many Death Eaters on your own?"

"_Hah_." Karl grimaced; he hadn't meant for the sarcasm to escape. Its toxic vapors drained their already poor morale like a sieve. Casting about, he made a tactical snap-decision, selecting an option no Unspeakable was supposed choose with an outsider: tell the Truth, or most of it. "I've killed over two dozen in the past two hours. Now let's go."

Heaving a sigh of frustration, the young man followed him to the door. Like a group of disgruntled, mystical ducklings, the other three followed.

* * *

The door opened into darkness.

Karl frowned. Exits from the _skepsivore _holding room, whose tank now practically shuddered under their collective ramming behavior, lead to decontamination chambers. The Department had studied _skepsivore_'s for decades, nearly a century now. But until they received a clean bill of health, every Unspeakable was to undergo standard decontamination protocols when leaving.

In fact, he now remembered there had been no such chamber between the Time room and the Live Samples chamber. _That _meant errors in the portal-doorways, setups normally dormant unless ….

_"Rookwood."_ He growled the name. Why hadn't he applied a general-purpose Room Cleaner sooner? Yes the explosions would've messed with the already odd temporal issues, but the room would've been cleaned of Rookwood's existence before forcing the mini-Jumps. Plus everything else, but no solution was perfect.

"Wha-a?" the brunette – _Hermione _– asked. She sounded nervous.

Karl checked himself; the students weren't accustomed to the voice-warping characteristics of his hood. "Apologies. I believe Rookwood, a former Unspeakable, sabotaged the Portal network, altering the usual halls network. Damn him to the coldest pit of _Hel_. Pardon my French."

The soft contact of hardened leather on marble brought his attention back to the darkened room. More footsteps, clattering, but in partial light showing multi-colored robes, entering in staggered patterns, covering each other on the other side of the next-nearest entrance. Karl relaxed a hair; Death Eaters wore black when on missions, and the closest set of robes were a fashionable blue.

"That was not French, _Monsieur Inexprimable,_" a voice with a familiar, lilting accent spoke from the darkness. "I should know, yes?"

Karl took a long step through the doorway, holding his back to it, preventing as much visibility towards the school children as possible. "Miss Delacour? Is that you?"

"Not just her; what am I? Chopped liver?" another voice called out. Nymphadora came into view, a wide grin on her face, and a positive rainbow flowing around her hair. It settled on a placid green, yellow highlights streaking through its length. "Unspeakable Fifteen, may I introduce you to a few friends of mine. We got your call for help about the same time as … uh … well … another call for help. Have you seen Harry? Little guy, sexy green eyes, messy black hair?"

The young man pushed past, a bemused look on his inexperienced face. "Tonks? Wait – Fleur? Is that you? What are you guys doing here? Is Sirius –"

This time Karl made sure to step aside, blending into the shadows as a tall, gaunt man jumped out of what looked to be a small combat-ready militia. The wizard looked as if he'd missed more than a few meals, perhaps half a lifetime's worth, but the wiry strength proved more than sufficient for seizing an – also scrawny – teenager in a massive full-body hug.

"Hey, uh, Operative," Nymphadora matched his retreat, the silvery-blonde Veela close behind. "Everything went alright after we left, right?"

Karl glanced at the teenagers off to one side. The red-haired lanky one was enveloped by a short man bearing Ministry-approved hardware, while the others were grouped in an awkward huddle, undergoing a form of interrogation by another two older members, one with an odd mustache and the other a witch with a large set of glasses. But one of the remaining wizards, Shacklebolt, was walking closer. As the Auror's footsteps grew nearer, Karl's Occlumency started flaring, last-moment warnings of non-sapient assault.

He ducked ba –

_Pain swelled in the center of Karl's forehead. It struck, merciless agony sinking into the barriers dividing his separated thoughts. Partitions folded, collapsing like walls of a condemned warehouse, spilling their contents across every surface. Searing reflections of that agony penetrated the best barriers he could formulate, tipping their anchor points over, cascading into further key anchors, an unending domino effect rippling through his mind._

_ The sheer pain couldn't be described. Karl could find solace only in seeking the purity of numbers, calculating variables, probabilities of his sanity remaining intact. The odds of retaining everything in his mind without error lay vanishingly small, diminishing by the second. Fortunate it was, that each second passed with agonizing slowness, magnifying the fire burning at his nerves._

_ One fact drifted into his consciousness, and almost drifted out again before he noticed its presence. It floated back into focus, contents expanding into equations._

_ Karl's identity was not limited to the single variable defined as Unspeakable. His skills lay in that region true, but he held one deeper secret. One that had kept him alive in scenarios other Unspeakables had not. Leaving it unused right now did not compute, not when it could negate the pain, save his mind._

_ His arm rotated at glacial velocity, sleeve tumbling back. It couldn't fall back far enough, necessitating a cutting charm to sever the material. Below lay the tattoo, the one that had stored his wand during the Ritual-enhanced Time Jump, Department Approved no less. Shifting its presence away through bodily-change was impossible; runic tattoos worked like curse scars, uncaring of how many magical properties resided in its habitat. But there was a single caveat to that rule – if used at the application of its creation, a portion could be hidden. Somewhere between the trans-dimensional space alterations and pure physical depths, the final component to the Ritual he'd _almost _completed rose to the surface._

_ A moment of happiness at his own sheer brilliance penetrated the agony. This was the critical value of Rituals: they could be held in suspension if designed aright, waiting conditions before completion. Wards could be considered Rituals in static form, expressing actions under specific variables. Keeping his little secret this way was dangerous, but safe from all but a few esoteric detection methods. No one had ever suspected what could be accomplished by a Seventh Year student, blending a little Occlumency with Warding, and a Ritual designed during his last, painful year._

_ Karl's wand stabbed down, tip pressing against skin, just above the draconic eye-ridge. If ever seen, the dragon tattoo would draw admiring glances from many in appreciation for its perfection and grace. But one tiny part was missing, a miniscule but essential drop of ink, the absence of which prevented the Ritual from achieving completion. Now it answered his call, emerging from the pocket outside the tattoo._

_ The tiny dot of ink faded into existence, filling in the tiny blank space within the dragon's skull. While difficult to see, it rapidly assumed the same proportions as the other eye, swelling and changing color to match._

_ The immobile dragon blinked. Pigmented jaws opened in a silent yawn, whipping shut. It looked outward, long forked tongue flickering, before its body began to move._

_ Karl felt his entire self shake. Dormant energy, binding the shifting qualities of his inheritance broke free. He'd never been powerful, but devoting so much to the restraint of something as natural as breathing had reduced that meager quantity to almost squib levels. But now it was free, free to circulate, free to guide his body into motion. Liberated, his natural form could resume its unnatural powers, the most urgent task being to reduce nerve sensitivity, increase the vessel diameter in key portions of his anatomy, and above-all, stop undergoing so much pain._

_ As pain fell away, it was almost a relief to find himself back in a déjà vu false-memory, this time watching himself hand a note to himself. Rather than the covert methods used over a week ago Turned Time, this memory-self tossed the note across the room in a paper plane._

_ Insanity lay by such a vulnerable method. There lay a certain charm in that direction, but no one appreciated it. Well, except perhaps the Lovegoods._

Karl pushed himself off the floor, feeling an odd breeze brush his skin. Looking down, he noticed the fabric hanging of his arm in tatters, fingers still missing the glove. A multi-colored dragon tattoo swirled into sight, making a soundless roar before tumbling in a wingover that wrapped its length about his lower arm before vanishing higher up the sleeve.

"Cor …" Nymphadora's eyes were glued to his exposed skin. "That. Is. _Wicked! _Where did you get inked like that?_"_

He shook his head. Her priorities were just as he remembered. "Perhaps you should introduce me to the rest of your … friends?"

Ominous thudding sounds of wood on stone drew close, bringing with it new sensations. A grizzled man approached; his magic felt coarse, powerful. Where Nymphadora's magic resembled a fine sand, fluctuating with her ever-changing form, this man's magic felt like a golem made of rough diamonds, latent fury poised to its master's call. Karl – Merlin, the entire _Department _– knew of this man by reputation, but the whirling Artifact that settled in the older man's eye-socket lent proof beyond guessing: Master Auror Moody.

The grizzled veteran came to a stop, electric-blue eye darting across Karl's body. He gave a short nod. "Heard tell ye caught a few of the bastards. How many left?"

Karl nodded a greeting to Miss Delacour, then turned to face him fully. "Full count was twelve, reinforcements unknown. At present there are possibly less than a dozen, but they're Inner Circle, including Rookwood, Mulciber and Bellatrix. I can tell you two of Lestranges are dead. I also saw Lord Malfoy, without a mask."

Multiple heads twisted his way. "Malfoy?" veteran eyes of a thousand battles focused on his own, giving the uncomfortable impression of seeing through Department's best personal defenses. "Are you sure boy … Unspeakable?"

Karl rolled his eyes. _That _certainly answered the question. He'd have to upgrade his hood again or abandon it entirely once out of the building. "Unless someone else is polyjuiced as Malfoy, retains Lord-level access to the elevators, and uses Malfoy's personal wand-cane, yes it was Lord Malfoy."

On anyone else, the expression blooming on Moody's face would be a smile. On his face, such an innocent look would have fled in a heartbeat. "Aye laddie, that would be quite the coincidence, wouldn' it?" He paused. "Would yeh happen to know _where _they are, right now?"

Shrugging, Karl lifted his wrist. "M.I.R.R.O.R.: Designate lifesigns at current position as friendly. Identify locations of non-friendly lifesigns."

A hungry look emanated from the Master Auror's gaze but remained only that.

_"Sir. Individuals under current 'non-friendly' designation are in the Antechamber, Solarium, and proceeding towards the Death Chamber."_

Karl growled under his breath. "M.I.R.R.O.R.: Verify Portal integrity."

A faint hum buzzed over the link. _"Portal connections respond as intact and in good repair. Excellent work, sir."_

"They're malfunctioning. M.I.R.R.O.R.: Make a log for extensive repair and de-bug protocols for the next shift. I went from the Time Room to Live Samples bypassing Decon."

_"Logged. Recommend using extreme caution, sir. Alert: temporal variance contamination is approaching lethal levels. Suggested treatment: remove active Chrono-magi—"_

Karl slapped the silence icon, removing the gauntlet's Time-Turner in the same motion. As he put it under his robes, he glanced to the others at his side. They looked at him with puzzled eyes, minus Moody, who looked resolute, but grim. After a moment the older Auror stomped away, muttering under his breath about '_damn kids'_ … or so it sounded from a distance.

"So," Nymphadora retained a studious, natural, tone, undoubtedly part of her training. "In English, _Queen's_ English mind you, what does that mean?"

"Classified." Karl took in the accusing glares and reconsidered his statement. "Well … not _exactly _classified. Just less well-known. Abuse of Temporal magics often creates … less than beneficial side-effects."

"And in _this _case?" Fleur's perfect eyebrow arched high, inviting disagreement.

Karl gazed at the students, still gathered around the gaunt man and the pudgy fellow with the official Ministry markings. They looked worried, happier than before, yet still worried. "Hogwarts has a very powerful Chrono-latency … all those students, so much magic. It's a theory, but we believe Magic remembers its users. The Department employs more active esoteric magics and intermittent adult wizards from across the globe; it's more difficult to remember everyone. Especially," he gestured at the Time-Turner, hidden under his collar, "When _someone_ keeps drifting in and out of sight. It's why we have to be so careful, no elephants for example."

"No elephants?" an interested voice cut in. Shacklebolt stepped a little closer, his purple clothing near-black in the darkness. "Why ever not?"

The entire group seemed to be getting ready to move on, so Karl checked his gear one last time. "What does everyone say about elephants?"

"They are big?" Fleur volunteered.

Nymphadora snickered. "Yeah. They have ginormous –"

"Memories." Shacklebolt interjected in firm voice. "An elephant never forgets, as I recall."

"Precisely. Elephants have gone extinct on seven separate occasions, a formidable achievement I'm sure you'll agree."

Nymphadora's giggle went silent. "I'll say. Most species only manage it once."

"Have you heard of Hannibal?" Karl slid his last remaining throwing blade back into its sheath and checked his sword. The chip was repairing itself, but very slowly. The repairing glyph had been the recipient of the damage, slowing the process. He ran his finger over the marking, checking its progress.

"Hannibal Lecter? Isn't that an American movie?" the multi-colored hair shifted into dark blue abruptly, a matching expression on her face. "Horror stuff. Didn't like it that much. Scared my date more than me, and that's no fun for snuggling –"

"Hannibal of _Carthage_, 219 BC," Karl interrupted. On the other hand, he'd forgotten about some of his former classmate's habits. Absence made the heart fonder, perhaps? "Took an army of elephants over the Alps, rampaged through Italy for fourteen years? Battle of Cannae in 216, single bloodiest day in military history?"

"_Oui,"_ Fleur agreed. "I know of him. What of it?"

The blade rammed home, lock engaging with a click. "No one knows how, but the Carthaginians managed to weaponize their … survival trick. Three dozen elephants should have died ten times over through the Alps, but they didn't. They managed to tie in that avoidance of extinction to their military campaign … a sort of reset as it were. If an elephant fell off a cliff, it would … reset, and remember to not step so close to the edge next time. This hasn't stopped."

Shacklebolt paused. "You mean to say that elephants possess an eidetic memory that can _remember the future?"_

"Immune to Obliviation," Karl counted on gloved fingers, "Memory charms, Milk of Amnesia, concussions … nearly everything involving memory. Even their body parts remember – which is why no Unspeakable will wear ivory."

The Auror blanched, his dark skin becoming a pale muddy color. "Did you say, _ivory?_"

Karl froze as Shacklebolt reached up to touch the ornaments on his rounded hat. They'd sat there without change that Karl could remember, little objects no one would notice. Little _bone white _objects that would escape a standard sweep, such as the kind Karl would use, covered in a varnish that did everything to protect from weather, but _nothing _to inhibit their effect on magic's chaotic eddies.

He felt another stab of pain down the center of his brain, somewhere from the frontal lobe to the cerebellum. "Oh bother."

* * *

The next doorway lead to a destroyed storage center. It _should _have taken them one chamber closer to the upper halls, and the elevators therein, but given the way things were going tonight Karl wasn't surprised.

Nymphadora was very solicitous of his condition, a fact that seemed to bother the militia member with the odd mustache. Her guilt complex seemed to be growing larger, although her logic seemed unfathomable to Karl's reasoning.

To his surprise, Kingsley Shacklebolt was bald, a fact noticeable now that his hat was sealed within the tightest containment field available. His own apology had been quite handsome, considering his lack of knowledge – understandable for the most part. Only the older families kept the Traditions alive, a tendency wiped out as Voldemort's chaos ripped through Wizarding society in the last Dark Lord's War.

Fleur, however, was happier than he'd seen in a long time. She strolled along humming, a little smile on her face. It would've been quite charming if they'd not been going through a half-destroyed storehouse.

_"Sir,"_ his wrist communicator activated. _"I am detecting spellfire in the Death Chamber. Might I remind you that using magic in-"_

Nymphadora was already sprinting ahead motioning wildly to the others. If the doorways had cooperated, they'd already be on their way back from the elevators. But whomever had reprogrammed the Portals knew what he was curse on Rookwood's treachery passed Karl's lips.

The group as a whole trotted faster, performing only the most cursory of scans as they approached each new doorway. Karl was able to give a rough assessment to the rooms' conditions, noting in his mind which places would be vulnerable to future attacks. Conscious memory would serve, but once he had access to his memory table … the resources acquired would go a long way towards building his own Department of Mysteries. Not as large, naturally, perhaps more of an Apartment of Mysteries? A Closet of Mystique?

Nymphadora glanced back at his snickering. "Wha-? Something funny?"

He waved her off. "Plans for the future."

A wide smile flashed his way, and her hair glowed – actually started _glowing – _a bright fuchsia. Beside him Fleur was smiling as well, but her motions were smoother, more controlled.

For a moment, he toyed with the idea of contacting either of the two after the night's events. They seemed amenable to interaction, and would do well with the projects he'd envisioned. But then he reconsidered; the two were active members of what had to be the Order of the Phoenix. They were front line combatants in a war requiring power, something even his unlocked abilities lacked.

Unconsciously he adjusted his height, adding an inch to his stride. Just in time, as the next doorway opened to the sound of spells cracking against reinforced marble, and a high-pitched scream that would not stop.

Karl drove himself forwards, hands already in motion. One chose a vial from his bandoleer, the other took a reverse-grip on his wand.

Moody stepped aside, restraining the chubby red-haired man as he did. Some kind of body-reinforcement magic had to be involved, given the shorter man's frantic actions. "She has my daughter! I'll kill her! I'll eviscerate that –"

He sailed past, lofting the vial into the air as the doorposts moved by, and twirled. The reverse-grip was perfect for the Malay throwing spells, and the vial spun into the room like a professional shot-put. Bending low, Karl took another vial, his last smoke generator, and flicked it at the ceiling ahead and above. It shattered on stone dozens of feet above, dropping a screen that covered the interior.

Deafening noise erupted from his first throw, combined with the bright flash only his protective eye-wear prevented from causing blindness.

_Then_ Moody let go, sending the entire group to rush in, spells on their lips and magic at their fingertips. They were obviously untrained in mass-fire tactics, coordinated movement, or even combat spellwork to Karl's eye, but compensated for their lack of quality in enthusiasm.

Nymphadora and Kingsley moved like the professionals they were, shielding each other and launching attacks in perfect synchronization. Moody followed the red-haired man, the two vanishing into the mist as it fell.

The screaming stopped. Other voices bellowed alarm; not fear. To the Death Eaters, this was _unplanned_, Karl believed, but not _unexpected, _habits of experienced campaigners. He ducked the next burst of flame going overhead, launching a weak repulsion curse back in its general direction.

"Here, over here!" the gaunt man loped past, an evil smile on his face. At his side Harry Potter charged, accompanied by that mustached man wielding unnatural reflexes. The older two were moving with the ease of long practice, eschewing shields altogether to send a doubled number of spells downrange. Harry kept up with them, hampered only a little as the brunette girl stubbornly stayed on their flank. Her spellwork was technically perfect, encompassing a wide array of spells, but possessing a little hesitancy in execution. Karl had to give her credit for one thing; she still managed to anticipate Mister Potter's movements with unerring accuracy.

Karl shook his head. The dynamics of group work never ceased to amaze him. Or confuse. Either worked.

"_Monsieur _Unspeakable_,_" Fleur was there, a fireball warming the air, giving off faint lines of chaos. She fired a casual curse into the mist, eyes tracking something he could not see. "Where are they? Can you find them?"

He grimaced, checking his watch. Less than four minutes until the critical period was past. "I can, but Moody is better suited …."

She shook her head, long blonde hair twisting. "He is busy with that young girl_,_ watching her father. There are more here, we must hurry!"

Grumbling under his breath, Karl tapped the eyewear, activating another filter. Through the enchanted smoke he could see individual fights breaking out, two on three, one on two, two on two – the chaos was indescribable. But he could also see two smaller figures huddled behind the Veil, where no thinking man would hide. Of course, that's precisely where young Potter was moving, slowed by a determined group of masked faces.

"This way," he paused, then grabbed her wrist. While her aim was precise, Veela sensed magical signatures in a way he did not fully understand. If her vision in the dark was negligible, it was therefore logical to keep from separation. Even if it felt like his life was being directed by a bottom-rate author of a bad romance novel. As he thought the wrist under his grip accepted the hold. Sensations such as heat and texture didn't go through treated leather, but her bone structure felt like a bird's wing; deceptively strong, but delicate and light.

He gave a mental shrug. She'd survived this long, she would survive a little longer.

Around them battle raged. The silver-haired Malfoy, disdaining his mask, was engaged with Moody, firing rippling blasts at the scarred Master Auror. Precision jinxes and curses sought weak points, skittering along protective shields and conjured barriers like St. Elmo's fire. The grizzled veteran fired back with devastating area-effect curses, bludgeoning the Death Eater with weaker immediate spells, but ones that held a cumulative effect over time. The Lord's hurried responses hinted at desperation – good and bad.

Something dark charged into Karl, snarling. He reacted on instinct, releasing Fleur to pull out the throwing knife and plunging for its jugular. Strategically speaking it was a poor decision. Throwing knives lacked the necessary hardware for true hand-to-hand combat; no tang to shield the hand and a blade weak to shock. But it was bespelled with the best enhancements he could devise, coated with aconite and made of cold iron.

His unexpected opponent grunted, spinning away, taking Karl's knife with him.

Nymphadora came from nowhere, a Black spell on her lips, shielding the two of them. "Wondered where you'd gotten off to! Shack! Help Moody!"

A fireball followed by a curse he didn't recognize came from Fleur's side, a smoking trail of destruction lining a trail back to her side. The clear visibility surprised Karl, one of the Death Eaters must have worked a Dispelling, banishing the smoke. That was fine, there was no need to cover a surprise attack … although the lack of visual improvements to the Death Eater masks surprised him. The Dark Lord's Inner Circle was renowned for cunning magic.

Rough sand smashed against Karl's body, temporal fluctuations warning, hinting, _screaming_ danger. He could feel it, the raw power of ill-intent, a desire to inflict suffering on everything that lived. It felt familiar, the miasma of terrible energies not belonging to this plane. Specialists theorized the Veil was just that kind of gateway, an entryway no mortal could transgress. Corporal punishment via Veil was reserved for the worst of society for that very reason. Banishing an innocent soul to another plane never worked, and exacted dire consequences.

The sensation strengthened. Without knowing quite why he obeyed the instinct and sent an angled Banishing charm at the small figures just barely visible behind the Veil's lower half, a heavy powered version. They flew sideways behind an oddly shaped plinth, out of sight.

Half a moment later _Fiendfyre_ exploded into the side of the Veil – a fool's tactic. For a moment Karl held his breath. The semi-sentient fire actively strained away from the hanging fabric, a substance tentatively identified as an ichor variant, masquerading as cloth. But the inherent nature of even demonic fire was to burn all that could combust, and a strand touched the dark material.

_'Huh,' _he stared as the entirety of _fiendfyre _blurred into a single tiny strand, sucked into the Veil's depths. It vanished, leaving the drapery sagging, quiet and still. _'That's something to put in the logs.'_

"Karl! Head in the game!" Nymphadora's voice bellowed.

With a jerk he got his focus back, drawing the long blade at his side. He felt better than he had in days, as if his energy were coming back in one fell swoop. A wide grin, hidden by the hood, spread across his face. Four Death Eaters faced them, one wielding a melee weapon of some type, the others carrying wands. He focused on the axe-wielder, leaving his companions to try the others.

_"En garde,"_ he held its tip up in a formal salute, doubling as a guard position. The Death Eater closest to him took one look and laughed. His own weapon was a massive axe, chips along the cutting-edge holding streaks of darker stains in their depths. Certain creatures left that kind of residue

The Death Eater feinted, wide blade flicking out and back with unnatural speed. It too, must have been enhanced.

Karl set himself down, a professional _Mur_ defense. He darted forwards, stabbing, using the _colichemarde's_ length before resetting. The axe swung a short arc, probing before the Death Eater's height advantage led him to try ramming the butt end in a basic strike.

Such an error received a counterstrike, scoring a small gash along the Death Eater's arm. Nymphadora landed a bludgeoning curse at the same time, sending the Death Eater spinning. A shielding effect in his robes took the brunt of Fleur's borderline Dark cutting curse, spreading its potency across the entire fabric. The second Death Eater finished casting a longer spell, ducking back under the third wizard's shield as it detonated. Karl recognized the putrid gray coloration as it landed in their midst.

"Cover!" He tried to put up a shield, but the power requirement fizzled his attempt.

The aftershock threw all six in different directions. Karl landed on his side, blade flying out of sight. He rolled with the impact, fetching a leg against one of the stone benches, then his shoulder. The impact knocked the wind out of him, sending strange flashbacks to his time at the Tonks residence. As then he struggled to rise, curling behind a stone statue of _something_. It had teeth, ears and enough scales for a family of snakes, but its species eluded his prodigious memory.

Heartbeats thumping past felt like eternity, just breathing in and out. Normal existence responded, sound fading back into existence.

A hoarse shout brought Karl's attention over to Moody's position, where he and Shacklebolt were dueling Malfoy and what looked like Mulciber from the ragged boots and impeccable wandwork. The man was an offensive genius when it came to the mind, and backed it up with an appearance of dueling mastery – a faux bit of mummery if he'd ever seen one. The underlying skill level rested far below what the flashy display suggested. Moody's area-effect spells were taking a toll on them both, and Mulciber's mind magics were failing to engage over the practiced Auror's mental defenses.

Except Mulciber had dueled Auror teams before. Having had a week to do research, Karl knew that the wizard's most infamous work had turned five Hit Wizards against their own side. Granted, Moody was paranoid, and likely layered defenses over defenses, and not to slight Shacklebolt's skills, but why was Mulciber having trouble?

He took a look at Bellatrix. Her skills had not atrophied during incarceration at least. She was performing a long-range exchange with Black and Potter. Fair enough, their proximity to the Veil would discourage … _discourage …._

What in the Nine Hells were they doing there?

"Nice one James!" he heard Black call out. Potter responded with an inventive use of the _flipendo _variant, targeting debris instead of wizards. Clever, but energy-sapping.

Karl lunged out of cover, hurtling into action. Already the Veil's tendrils were drifting outwards, fluttering in the light breeze precluding an attempt. Some theorized the Veil was a simple ambush-predator, that happened to straddle multiple planes. Most ignored that laughable hypothesis, but as he pelted closer, Karl could understand the thought's origin.

A mad laugh came from the mad-woman across the way. A long lance of light emanated from her position, lighting up her dark eyes and dirt-streaked face.

His shoulder rammed into the bony man's midsection, driving a great gust of air from the man's lungs, and the man himself down to one side. A shriek of rage pierced the room, followed by lightning-fast slivers of light.

Bereft of the enchanted blade, Karl was forced to resort to spell-swatting. Batting away individual spells meant diverting his mental energies, but was worth it. His entire focus came down to survival, splitting Occlumency barriers to finer and finer divisions, slowing perceptions to better identify each spell. Their properties were the darkest he'd ever seen outside of Necromantic rituals – and some undercut even that.

_'Exta, Chariban, Dentes,'_ gray spells whistled in, deflecting off his wand. The first two felt like variations of the same curse. The third had a glittering sensation, like tooth-cleaning charms, but … Dark. _'Putredine, Intermiss,'_ where had she learned these? A few were almost certainly of Black origin, but he couldn't keep countering. Eventually she'd expend his admittedly limited knowledge. Spell-swatting with the wrong counter lead to mishaps on the order of spell creation. Bad. Very. Bad. He'd need to escape somehow.

Pain racked his mind, Occlumency barriers falling faster. He lacked power to force an escape, and Black was lying still behind him. Where was everyone?

"Sirius!" a young voice screamed out.

The spells continued, one slicing through Karl's bare arm. He winced, the distraction costing more time, then wasted another moment confirming the Event's imminent arrival. Wrongfooted, he caught another spell on the same arm. This one was a decay curse, kept at bay by his shapeshifting capabilities.

Then it stopped.

He panted, adrenaline and mental high poised for another attack. The room echoed silence, except for screaming going out the hall. His diminutive watch was chirping.

Karl froze, taking an instant inventory. Sword? Gone. Knives? Gone. Bandoleer? Two Room Cleaners and an air freshener. His wand was in combat ready condition, robes damaged, arm damaged, still operating on an adrenaline high, and surrounded by potential witnesses.

Green light caught his attention, arcing down from the upper seats. One of the Death Eaters – the rest were leaving in a hurry, some Disapparating, others making a dedicated effort towards running – had stopped to launch the Killing Curse at him.

Karl relaxed his mental hold, letting the pain rip through barriers until he had the basic single partition left. If he moved, the curse would strike the Veil. No one knew what would happen if that curse hit a structure surrounded by death. So much magic in the Death Chamber meant the end of a hundred projects, each one dedicated to monitoring the Veil's vitals. There were stories of things happening in proximity with the Veil … no sane man could name or would want to see. Of course that was during the same era as when the sight of women's legs was considered to incite demon attacks, but the principle remained intact.

Eternity beckoned, shining a brilliant green into his soul. Karl considered his choices thus far; had he done the best he could with what he had?

On the balance, there were places for improvement. All mortals had them; even the temporary immortals had their Achilles Heel's, with respect of course. But he'd managed to understand why an old friend had rejected him and made up with her. He'd removed the Ministry's lock on shapeshifting wizards, despite their understandable paranoia. In recent history he'd even built his own Time-Turner, met new and interesting people and killed them – _some _of them. So yes, he could die a happy man. Life had been fulfilling, and his actions had improved the world. Even in his last moments, he stood between chaos and civilization, preventing –

A massive weight smashed into Karl's torso, bowling him over like a bag of poorly-settled potatoes. He struck the ground for the second time in five minutes, skidding with a heavy, sweaty weight squashing him into the floor.

Above the vivid green _Avadra kedavra _curse vanished into the Veil, disappearing with a tiny slurping sound.

"Are you insane? Standing there like that?" Nymphadora's heart-shaped face was less than a handspan away from his. She had his full attention, not just for that reason, but because of the grip she held on his shoulders, shaking him at the termination point of each sentence.

"I just got you back and _you were just going to off and die?"_ The last few words were punctuated by hard shakes that rattled Karl's hood off, leaving his face bare to the world.

Karl winced. "In my defense …."

The metamorphmagus silenced him manually, pressing herself against him in a decidedly non-Auror-standard hugging technique. He automatically shifted, the better to accommodate the sudden pressure, feeling her counter-shifting in response. The edges of his vision caught sight of hair coruscating a multitude of colors, flashing from red to violet and back. They also caught sight of the veela, who looked disappointed for some reason. Helpless, he just shrugged into the unfamiliar situation, and pulled his one-time friend a little closer.

* * *

_A/N: Hate putting up more notes, but my fault. Accidentally loaded the chapter order wrong, as explained at the end of the last chapter. The correct order (and accidental omitted chapter) is back in place. Apologies for the confusion._


	11. When Time Stands Still

More important sensations interrupted them. A near-silent _boom _shook the floor, and a faint metallic rolling sound. Instinct nagged that the little sound was more important than the larger one, but the precise reason escaped memory.

Karl reluctantly pushed himself up, favoring his arm. Everything seemed in order. His arm was still cursed, and while his unlocked shape-shifting seemed to be keeping pace, it would not do to put rusty skills to the ultimate test quite so soon. But there was a niggling feeling from the back of his mind, struggling to be heard over the now mammoth headache that threatened to split his brain in two. What was it? Something about the Time-Turner, and an Event?

Hacking and wheezing caught his attention. The gaunt Black fellow was clutching his midriff, likely where Karl had struck. In retrospect that might've hurt, but it was better than withstanding one of the Insane Lestrange's spells. The shaggy head shook itself, looking first one way then the other, a wild look growing in his eyes. "Harry – where's Harry? He was just here!"

Fleur stepped down, a sour look on her face. "He went after zat _chienne_. The one that tried to send you through that—that – stone curtain thing. It is _terrifant, _creepy, as you English say."

The faintest of sounds, like bronze ringing on the edge of a baby's fingernail, prompted Karl's attention. Looking down, he was just in time to see Black's heel connect with Old Tom's venerable exterior, sending the aged Time-Turner rolling backward into the Veil's clutches. Time stood still – Karl could see the patch of Acromantula silk, torn from the lining of his robes, doggedly fulfilling its magical duty of sticking to the contraption's handle. He could feel Nymphadora's warmth pressed against his side as she looked at his arm, even see her gold-flecked hair if he turned enough. Adrenaline was one possible excuse, but he preferred to think Time itself was giving him a good look at Doom.

What was the point of having a massive accident occur if no one observed them? There had to be an observer for everything, sentient or not.

Old Tom rolled just a touch further, slipping into the hungry maw's darkness. As it disappeared in slow motion, cracks appeared along the diamond-hard core, a faint light gleaming as grains of the most powerful substance known to man began to spill into what he considered the third most dangerous item inside the Department.

He had enough time to realize what was about to happen … what _exactly_, he did not know. But the one fraction of a second spared glimpse his watch showed the truth. The Event he'd hoped to avoid, that he'd been hoping – _praying _– to be a mistake, was occurring right on schedule.

A pale glow emanated from the Veil, washing over the four people. No one else remained in the Chamber, the fight having been moved outwards. Fortunate, or unfortunate? Karl was of two minds in that matter, near literal fact. Dividing one's mind through Turned Time did strange things to partitioned Occlumency. Independent thoughts began to arise if one were not careful, leading to schizophrenia, no matter how many muggle specialists debunked the term.

"Well that's torn it," a faint voice Karl recognized as his own spoke up. A sigh escaped from the depths of his chest. "The last Century Timer in service. Now I'll have to Chain-Jump if I want to see anything older than last week."

The black-haired man looked down as if the guilty appendage had betrayed him, then back at the fading device. He turned pale, leaning over. "A Time-Turner? Wait, can't we get –"

A long arm stretched out and clamped itself around the thin man's shoulder. Nymphadora followed her arm, scowling the entire way. "Sirius Orion Black, if you even _think _about going near that thing, I swear to your cousin that I will hex you to Atlantis and back!"

"Right, got it, easy!" the man – Lord Black perhaps? The Annals were unclear on the matter – backpedaled, looking forlorn at the device. It was obvious the man had a thorough education on obscure matters, given the hint of extreme anxiety in his manner. He turned the same desperate look on Karl. "I apologize Unspeakable. That was my fault. I'll try to replace it, the Blacks have a lot of old junk in their Vaults."

Karl waved it away, and removed his sunglasses. His pupils dilated, then shrank, adjusting to the lighting. After a moment he shifted them a dark gray, suiting his mood. "Don't bother. It gives me a hobby once I'm free of this place."

Eyebrows lifted, not only by the man but by the two women present. Black spoke first. "Free? You are, _were, _a prisoner?"

He turned a smile on the apparent Azkaban escapee, and focused on his eyes once again. In seconds he ran through multiple pupil varieties, narrowing into reptilian slits, widening to an equine nature, and concluding with a perfectly round owl-like structure before returning them to their natural shape. "The Ministry is … not eager to lose an employee with my, shall we say, unique skills. With Miss Delacour's aid, their records and tracking systems are offline. Once I leave, I'm free."

"Know what that's like," he heard the man mutter. But he raised his voice. "If you need anything, please let me know. My name is Sirius Black, and a Lord – sort of. Sorry though, I really need to – "

"Find young Potter, yes," Karl watched wavering lines forming along the Veil's edges, starting to the place closest to the dissolving Turner. The Veil was quivering slightly, similar to how a wizard fond of food would settle after a succulent meal, invisible paths like steam forming before its archway. "I have one more matter to take care of; better if Auror Tonks and Miss Delacour accompanied you."

"I'm staying here." Nymphadora stated, hair flaring an emphatic orange. "Sirius can find them. They're making enough noise to wake the dead." An explosion shook the doorway, as if proving her point.

"I, too am staying," Fleur added. Her eyes turned on Karl with a knowing glint, then back to the Veil. "Just in case."

"If you're sure …?" Black started away, pausing to glance back at them. Then his eyes snapped to the Veil of Death, widening in terror.

Ahead, just in front of the Veil, a small Rift was forming. It looked like a rip, hanging in the middle of nothing. Surrounded by the Veil, it resembled nothing more than a large, slit-pupil, a giant eye if one were crude enough to bring anthropomorphism into the equation. But the dangerous aspect lay in the claws extending from the rip; short talons an inch long, designed for gripping rather than slicing. They belonged to a hand that seemed boney in the extreme, not quite skeletal, but of a certainty not pertaining to a living organism in the traditional sense.

Karl felt like swearing, but honored the ancient tradition of slapping a palm against his face instead. "No, my life cannot be simple. Not a simple Distortion, or Waving Wind or even a little Hell Cockroach. It's _never _easy. Never simple. Why?"

The female members of the group spun to see his target, the widening gap rippling open around the questing hand. It slid further, feeling around the edges, churning edges recoiling at its fetid touch. Nymphadora blanched, even her hair turning pure white. "Time Demon?"

Black swallowed, looking as if he'd rather be anywhere but there. To his credit, his wand was pointed square at the opening, steady as the Rock of Gibraltar. "Um, I've heard those are bad. Bad. With a capital Bee."

"Potentially," Karl looked around for his sword, but couldn't see it. He thought a moment, pain slowing his synapses. A few solutions came to mind, but he exchanged glances with Nymphadora. Technically as an official Auror, she outranked an ex-Unspeakable, although even more technically he wasn't an _ex-_ Unspeakable until he left the premises. She gave him a nod, apparently ceding direction to his expertise.

Maybe she'd gained wisdom since Hogwarts.

"Black." Karl spared the man a glance, "Go. We have this. Harry needs you now, I think he saw you go down, very loyal that boy."

The older man blinked once. "Oh Merlin … he couldn't have … _Harry! I'm coming!_"

Karl winced at the sudden volume, turning his attention back to the tear. It was nearly open, revealing a thin shoulder behind the skinny arm. He glared at it, focusing his rage on the embodiment of all that opposed his profession.

"_Monsieur_ … ah … Karl," Fleur changed her sentence after looking around the empty room. "Why do we not destroy it while it is halfway out? It would be easier, no?"

He held out a hand, the gloved one, and tilted it slightly. "In some ways yes. Just slicing it off here and now would end that particular spawn. But its blood would spray all over the Rift and fuel some kind of hema-thaumic connection, keeping a way open between Planes. Dormant at times, but liable to flare up at the wrong moment. Now, it's in front of the Veil, so it's a fifty-fifty chance the invader would be stepping from one transition to another, but why take the risk?"

"_Oui_!" he loved to see the look of dawning comprehension appear. On the Veela it was particularly exquisite, as was every action they performed. "Then we allow it through, then destroy both it and the opening next, yes?"

"More or less," he agreed. "By the looks, it's a small one. Less of a Terror than a Panic class. We may well destroy it within two minutes, tops."

The talons contracted into a fist, swelling larger. Karl mentally increased its rating, and frowned. "On second thought, this one might be a bit harder."

"How much did you say?" the Veela's skeptical look turned worried.

The fist sprouted short points from behind the knuckles, fragile-looking but having the same dangerous look as Goblin-forged spears. Obsidian dark edges splintered against the rip, except for one that sliced through the rip itself, expanding the tear further. A muscled forearm pushed its way further in, showing naked flesh, minute plates developing as it entered their reality.

"Oh, perhaps three times as hard …." Karl pondered his memory, looking for a similar shape. This appeared to be a hybrid species, adaptable to most conditions. Except for cold iron, of course. All planar beings were susceptible to it, even native wizards to a lesser degree. Solutions clicked through his mind, but all depended on a single element that was not yet present. The answer became obvious after logic was applied. "Tonks, do you still have that gift I gave you?"

She nodded, short rapid motions. "Yeah, I got it. Need it back?"

"Hardly. I'm Timed Out, can't Turn for a month at the least." He turned his front to the wavering tear in reality. "The Registry is, due to the employee's lamentable lack of foresight, operating without a functioning Registry, as of a few hours ago – relatively speaking. Go back twelve hours to the apartment, request a spare sword, and wait until now before giving it to me. Simple."

Her eyebrows went impossibly high, streaks of red zipping through her hair. "Mm … mm … me? You just said …?"

"_I _cannot Time-Travel," Karl reached for the first Room Cleaner on his bandoleer. It felt cold, the frozen elements starting to warm at his touch. "But you can. And you have, if I am remembering correctly. You have my sword right now, or rather, Miss Tonks Two does."

"How cou –" her voice broke off. "But that's impossible. We'd have crossed paths with my, uh, other self. We should all be dead right now if that happened, remember? No seeing yourself if you travel? Travelers go mad, or suffer heart attacks, or whatever!"

"Ridcully's Axiom," Karl shrugged. "We've already gone into the past, done what we needed to do, and made it to the present. Ergo, what's needed doing has been done. All that's left is to do it."

Her face twisted in confusion. Fleur on the other hand, smirked. He sighed and tried again.

"It's simple. We're _alive_. Therefore you successfully travelled into the past, which will soon be your present, and now is your future. We succeeded. Now stop arguing and succeed." Karl tapped his wand with impatience. "That thing is going to provide a challenge. I need to vent too. _If _you get me that sword."

"Archh. _Fine._ I forgot how bossy you were," the metamorph's grumbling deepened in the Doppler Effect as the Time-Turner's rotation twisted into place. Amusing, how a soprano became a bass for a moment.

Another fist punched its way free into their plane of existence. Its dorsal surface also showed blades, as dark as volcanic glass, and just as fragile, he knew from experience. Combined, the two arms clenched, pushing at the rip with apparent might.

"Remember," Karl readied his wand. "No standard spells. _Passionfyre _would work. Oh, and try to get angry."

She cocked a blonde eyebrow his way. "Say what?"

He nodded at the struggling arms, part of a shoulder was visible now. "Dementors feed on happy memories, exposed through fear. Time Demons come in multiple classes, and can feed on fear, terror, negative emotions. It is like combating a boggart."

"Laughing?" her head cocked to one side, like a bird.

Karl growled under his breath. "Never did understand that; what's funny about bad memories? No. Anger. Almost nothing eats anger. Prevents it from feeding on fear, gives you an edge. Can you do that?"

The Veela looked uncertain. "I … I do not know. If I become _too _angry, you know - ?"

He shrugged. "You get fuzzy and cute. Wait." He stopped, and mentally slapped himself. "I said that out loud didn't I?"

Fleur graced him with a slow wink. Another fireball began to coalesce in her hand. "_Oui_. That is … not what most would call it. Perhaps I have not lost ?"

"Ready."

The Time Demon's fingers clenched, slicing a wider opening. The orange-black bulk of its shoulders shredded at the barrier, giving way before its great mass to strain through. Even partially inside the Chamber its full measure could be taken, the impressive troll-like dimensions swelling large over their smaller forms.

Karl closed his eyes, tightening the Occlumency barriers into two specific wholes. One devoted itself to data analysis, the other to experiencing every anger-inducing memory he could dredge up. He took a breath, drawing in a lung full of atmosphere, letting it out in a sharp breath. When his eyes opened, they were crimson, cat-slit pupils glaring at the inhuman monster with pure rage.

"Come on then …" he glared up. "You want me? I'm standing right here! Puny runt like you gonna try something, or scuttle home?"

The creature may not have understood words, but body language was a universal tongue. It screeched at Karl, lunging its way out of the tear in Space-Time's fabric, pausing to stretch out its full height. Ten feet of darkening monster towered over Karl's slim frame, a pair of long, leathery wings unfolding twice that width. Glowing yellow eyes, filled with hunger and an utter lack of intellect ran over Karl's robed self, before it snarled black crystal teeth in another scream.

"_Skive!"_ An unusual curse left Karl's wand, bending and rolling like the waves of some unseen ocean. For a moment it seemed to miss the beast entirely, until the tail end snapped upwards, punching a hole through a wing.

It howled back, a screaming roar promising pain, fear and the loss of everything the listener held dear. The tones shook the air, causing pain through the sound alone.

Karl swept up his protective eyewear, made a minimal change inside his mouth, and bared ferocious canines at the monster. With one hand he slid his sunglasses into place, and fired off another curse. "Put your money where your mouth is, you misbegotten sack of offal! I've killed little pests like you on the way to _real _challenges. Or are you planning to kill me with laughter? You're so weak –"

The beast lunged forwards, swiping in a tight arc. Bits of confetti-like particles flew at Karl, driving him into a partial duck, raising the gauntleted arm to shield his unprotected face. He wished for his blade – the monster had over-extended, leaving himself open for a simple lunge. Instead he had to make due with a short-range _Excandescunt_, a bright flash of light blinding the monster.

"Fleur!" he twisted to one side, giving the veela a clear lane of fire.

A sibilant hiss was his only warning before a pulsating orb of violet-orange fury. It exploded against the Time Demon's shoulder, followed by a second burst that detonated before its dazzled eyes.

It reeled, hiss-screaming in pain. The dark material armoring the muscular shoulder dripped on the floor, melted by her fire's intense heat. Vulturine eyes focused on the French veela, narrowing. This time it pounced forwards, obsidian talons raking overhead like a great cat.

"_Connard_!" the lithe witch dodged out of the way, and gave a hiss of her own. "_Goûtez la colère du Veela!_" (1)

Karl spun a small transfiguration, sending a tiny web of steel over the monster's head. The mesh was loose, offering minimal interference with its vision. But the magic required for a dual transfiguration/levitation effect drained his resources heavily. He had to pause, panting for breath.

On its other side, Fleur screamed, sprouting wings of white feathers. Their blooming height flapped, sending the veela towards the ceiling, incandescent globes filling each hand. "_Mange du feu!_" (2)

Karl dove for cover as a near firestorm descended on the monster. Repeated bursts of unnatural fire crashed into the monster, some missing entirely and striking the ground leaving pockmarks in their wake. Sparks flew from the impact points, dying as they landed upon the absorbent stone, _Passionfyre's _inherent natureseeking its target before failing.

Recoiling, the Time Demon brandished its functional wing, slapping aside shots.

Heaving a sigh, Karl sent a minor _Dispel_, a precise strike landing on the wire covering. The Transfiguration ended prematurely, forcing the base material back into its original form, a block of stone. Of course, such an effort would restore the object's initial dimensions as well, driving a half-pound stone into the monster's head at the coefficient's rate of expanding _thaum_ degradation.

Transfiguration Masters were held amongst the deadliest mages in the world for a reason, after all.

Half a pound of rock punched the Time Demon in the cranium with the same approximate force of a hailstone travelling at terminal velocity. It also needed to be considered that the impact came without the gentle, crystalline structure ice possessed.

Staggered, the Time Demon fell to one knee, its overwhelming howl of rage turning into a dazed impression of an untrained cetacean. Glowing eyes dimmed, unfocused.

Fleur descended, wand appearing out of nowhere. A powerful explosive hex made a direct hit on the Time Demon's neck, distinctive colors arrowing into a point before diverting into a much softer impact. Its effect seemed to tickle the monster, or at least the barking sound it made could be interpreted as such.

"No directmagic!" Karl was already transfiguring another rock into wire mesh. It taxed his reserves, unshackled or no. "Hit it again!"

The beast shook off its dazed state and pushed up again, just in time to receive another fireball barrage.

Karl winced backwards once more. Facing an angry Veela had never been on his Top Ten list of any sort. Most extra-Planar societies avoided Veela conclaves, unable to face their para-planar fire. Time Demons? It hurt them, but not nearly as much as almost any other species, from any other Plane.

A lucky hit bypassed its covering wing, lashing blue-hot flames in its eyes. It screamed its rage back at the hovering Veela.

"Now would be a good time, Tonks!" Karl directed the mesh upwards again.

Gleaming iron slashed from nothingness, slicing into monstrous orange-black flesh, cutting deep. Unlike most bipedal organisms, Time Demons lacked internal circulation pathways, leaving it open to a powerful cutting blow. The arm shattered, flinging shards of blackened glass and cooling magma-like blood across the floor. In return, the sword bent at an oblique angle, sharp but looking like a child's interpretation of a pirate's saber.

A cry of frustration left Karl's throat. "The _head_! Chop its _head!"_

Nymphadora faded into visibility, whipping the blade around in a beautiful upward cut. In theory it should've impaled the creature's head. In actuality the Time Demon vanished in a clap of thunder, reappearing just behind the Auror.

Grunting, Karl abandoned his initial plan, and sent his Transfigured wire into the monster's throat, sending the Dispel after it in a hasty shot. The rock appeared, driving its not-inconsiderable force into the armored throat, disrupting its blade-fist from eviscerating Nymphadora from behind.

Her reflexes were better than even Karl had expected, sending the metamorphmagus in a forward roll to safety. She came up facing the correct direction – somewhat. Her robes were facing the wrong direction, but her head and limbs were all angled at the Time Demon, a full Shift worthy of the Level Two category.

Karl ruthlessly crushed a sense of envy. It was a skill he'd never possess; at best, he'd be able to twist his head a little over one shoulder. But Nymphadora had managed an entire reversal in an eyeblink.

"How do we kill it?" Tonks fired an explosive curse at the floor, sending bits of rock to spray at the monster. Dense stone, ensorcelled by the best minds in the business, resisted her blasts, sending only minor chips into the creature's legs. "Its arm grew back. What happened?"

"It's a _Time Demon,"_ Karl pulled out a Room Cleaner, shifting position. "You have to kill it in one blow or it will just keep restarting. Thank Merlin's Mother on a Broom it's only a smaller one. Closing the breach, get to cover!"

The vial warmed in his hand, activating the stasis-charmed contents into full potency. An inactivated version used on Rookwood had merely destroyed the hallway, sending the former Unspeakable into Merlin only knew where. This one though ….

_'Stop thinking. Start doing.'_ Karl flicked the vial into the air, then sent a gentle banishment its way. As it flew he dove behind the largest piece of stonework he could find, tucking behind it.

"Fleur!" he caught the diving Veela, felt an additional weight flip over the rock and onto his lap, squashing all three into a space just barely large enough.

Light, brighter than anything else the room had experienced in centuries shone past them. Shadows cast by the intense luminosity held definition seeming sharp enough to cut, if one dared touch. Pebbles, dust, a tiny spider web unseen since its arachnid creator perished, he could see all of it in the harsh illumination. Then the shockwave struck, driving dust and incandescent smoke past at _Plinian_ rate velocities.

Waiting until the vestiges of detonation had passed, Karl looked down to find Nymphadora looking back up at him, a questionable look on her face. Rolling his eyes, Karl dumped her atop the French Veela, eliciting squawks of surprise from both, and rolled back out from cover.

As he'd feared, the monster yet lived. As he'd _hoped_, the temporal disturbance was gone. In its place shining black dome surrounded the Time Demon like an iridescent bubble, its hideous form barely visible through the murky shield.

Nymphadora stalked out as well, glaring. Her hair shimmered a flat gray hue, shot through with black streaks. She spared him a single, terse nod before turning her full attention to the monster. "I'm guessing you can't do anything with that up?"

"No." he checked his bandoleer once more; if he had more time, he could get more from the shrunken chest on his belt. "Good trip?"

She gave a noncommittal shrug, ignoring Fleur as she made her own appearance, looking somewhat mussed. "Had to deliver a sandwich by the way. Kinda odd use of a Time-Turner if you ask me."

"Ah." He kept his own mien as inscrutable as possible. The migraine helped; anything else made the pain spread.

Deep within the protective sphere, the creature howled at them. Its skin, when they could see it, looked charred, obsidian plates flash-evaporated by the force of Karl's explosive. Halfway through the cry, the sound changed to a variation more common to hyenas. It approached the surface, horrendous laughter rising and falling at a manic tempo, baring its fangs at them. The former orange glow from its eyes had shifted to a red gleam, like coals waiting for just one last puff of air before flaming into an inferno. Having the Veil stuck within the dome beside the monster did not soften its image.

"That's the second thing about Time Demons," Karl reached out, taking his _colichemarde_ back. The bent edge earned a rueful sigh. He cast another longing stare at the ghostly form of Old Tom, the tiny granules escaping tiny cracks a grain at a time. "If you don't kill them in one hit, they do a small Time-Skip. If they take enough damage, a Null-Field engages. A twenty percent chance, in my experience. But when the Field falls it will be back to normal, enhanced against whatever hurt it."

"It adapts?" Fleur sounded surprised. "_Eh bien c'est juste génial. _How shall it be destroyed?" (3)

"Chop off the head," Karl gestured with his bent blade. "Cut through the neck. Destroy the brain – or whatever it is in there. Never had a chance to study one. Whole thing turns to ash."

Nymphadora hissed. "I was _that close!_ No spells, you said?"

"Nothing direct," he agreed. "They absorb it. Don't let it touch you either; Time-Burn isn't anything to fool with."

Thoughtful sounds came from Fleur's direction. "But, the _Passionfyre_, I burned it, yes?"

Karl froze. He looked down at the small craters scattered across the floor, then at the circular impact points on the monster's thoracic surface. He finished his brief examination with an infinitesimal turn towards the Veela. She looked back at him; her feathers were rapidly fading, large eyes from the avian change shrinking to their original size. "That. Is a good point."

"Right," Nymphadora took a half-turn around the dark dome. "I'm good with Transfiguration. Karl, you chop it, Fleur, melt its face as soon as the dome goes down."

"Or," the purple-toned flames reappeared in her hand, schlieren threads beginning their eerie, ethereal dance. Dark sparks erupted within the fireball's depths, matching the angry light in her eyes. "I throw the fire through the _pathétique_ shield, and burn that _sac à merde _back to _ze_ Nether Realms." (4)

"You can do that?" Nymphadora sounded impressed.

The Veela readied her throwing arm. "We can but try."

Karl readied his wand. "I've tried _fiendfyre_. Makes the edges smoke a bit, nothing more."

Not listening, Fleur lobbed the blob overhand. Her angry moue bespoke fury, reminding Karl that while she resembled like an attractive young female human, she carried different blood in her veins – how much very few knew for sure. A veela's heritage was vague, unknown outside those in a personal relationship with the exotic beings, and such individuals tended to not tell. Tales of veela reprisal against slavers was legendary – and why half the northern coast of Africa lacked agricultural prospects for the foreseeable future.

The fireball connected with the dome, pooling upon its spherical defense works. The dome's dark color lightened around the glowing fire, resisting its fury … until a single orange drop fell within the dome.

Screeching in victory, Fleur fully transformed, once more rising into the air on angel wings as she flung fistfuls of _passionfyre _against the dome.

"Remind me," Nymphadora edged a step further from the glowing dome. "Remind me to never get on her bad side. Just for reference, I don't think she gets that bad, even on her monthlies."

Karl gave her a flat look. "You went there."

A wide grin flashed back at him. "Hey, all part of the a-Dora-ble service! Good looks, brains, _and _humor!"

Another fusillade smacked into the dome, passing through it now, smiting the Time Demon. It stumbled back, step after step, still cackling. It was a horrible sound, no sane individual could hear it for long and retain their sanity. Listening to it for only a few minutes already had images of interminable chasms of chaos spinning gently in Karl's head. He was trained for it, practiced to resist, and yet the extra-planar anarchy permeated his brain.

"Hurts, does it?" he heard the Auror ask, her voice soft.

He wished for his concealing hood and its comforting darkness. "Migraine. Too much strain."

"We'll just take it down and go home then. You can come to my flat, nobody goes there." Her confident tone was almost covered by a sudden increase in fireballs, lashing out from above.

"There. She has him on the ropes," Karl noticed the monster still trying to dodge the fire. Obsidian plates were missing from every portion of the beast's body, and it strayed dangerously close to the Veil, getting closer one step at a time. Karl's mind suddenly realized the enraged veela's strategy, for the hysteric Time Demon. It was still laughing when a last fireball impacted the side of his head.

Karl tried to memorize how the figure tumbled sideways, screaming until his wild movements drew him against the Veil's drapery.

The fabric came alive, enfolding the Time Demon' scarred body with long, dusty strands. The screaming laughter increased in pitch vibrating out of human range before going silent.

Then Karl's eyes fell on the last vestiges of Old Tom. The crystalline container's thickness was less than that of a thumbnail. As he watched, the clear material began to bend inwards.

"Move, move, _move!_" he shoved past Nymphadora, ripping off his belt. The robe he wore was ripped with it, coming off onto the floor. "Get the chest, M.I.R.R.O.R." His frantic hand slapped the wrist device. "_M.I.R.R.O.R.!_"

_"Please state the nature of the Temporal Emergency."_ His wrist responded.

"I need a recursive chrono-loop schematic, stat!" the chest expanded, a drawer opening to Karl's questing hand. As he finished ripping off his cloak, a bag of silver objects spilled from the drawer's depths onto the floor. Karl swept them up without pause, and began to stab them into the stone. "Morgana-grade Event possible. I repeat: Morgana-grade Event possible!"

A faint whirr came from the reflective surface. _"Understood. Establish a perimeter with the non-Euclidean approach, and establish its containment field through—"_

Karl worked as the runic device reeled off directives. As it did so he caught a glimpse of Nymphadora and Fleur, both looking lost. He threw his cloak at them with the Turners encased within its folds, getting their attention. "Tonks! Use the Turner! Take the cloak and Fleur back ten minutes and get out of here! Help Potter!"

"I'm not goi –" she started to say.

_"Auror Tonks! That is an order! Clear the civilians and take cover!"_ he roared. Pulling a Drill Sergeant routine never sat right, but having a set of changeable vocal chords made it possible. It didn't work.

"_I don't answer to you, Unmentionable!_"

He sighed. Another corporate secret gone. How had she learned the secret codename for rookies?

Silver trinkets dropped to the ground, exactly thirty-three inches apart. There were just enough for the first layer; the second ring would have to be bronze. A hasty glimpse at Old Tom promised even less time. Cracks were spreading across its entire surface, bits of sand drifting _upwards_, floating against the laws of physics.

"Dora," he completed the first circle stopping to pick up the cloak. He offered it to Nymphadora. "Please, take my cloak and go. It has Time-Turners in it, if they go off? We lose middle England."

Conflict raged in her eyes; he didn't need to observe the nauseating complexities racing through her hair. But she was a professional, even if it didn't seem like it from time to time. Nymphadora turned to exchange a look with Fleur – when had the two of them grown so close? Not that it was his business. But she returned to look at him.

"Fine," she looked as if she wanted to charge at him for some reason, but held back. "But this better be the last time. Right, Fleur?"

"_Mais oui," _her companion directed a glare of her own at him. "Certainly_."_

He watched another moment as the long chain extended enough to wrap around both of the witches, and induce the enchantments carrying them back through time. It was a rougher disappearance than he normally saw, the fluctuating currents deviating from their normal drift to the jagged spikes one saw on stormy beaches. But they managed to succeed, fading from sight.

Karl resumed his second ring, adding charms made of beryllium alloy, better known as _orichalcum_. The key to dampening an Event lay in softening its impact, reducing the quantity of Temporal distortion waves from emerging. Designed correctly, the waves canceled each other out, eliminating the impact outside the containment recursive field. It took time and skill – the latter he possessed in spades. The former … not quite as much.

* * *

(1) Face the wrath of the Veela!

(2) Eat fire!

(3) Well that's just _great_.

(4) Untranslated, because the English-speaking author is polite, and readers have search engines.

* * *

A/N: Thanks for reading! Stay safe out there!


	12. Resolution

More sand trickled from the widening cracks. Old Tom had been one of the last Time-Turners capable of sending an observer up to a century in the past. Its contents had been, by necessity, forced into a smaller volume than the Sand's mass allowed.

Karl winced as another crack appeared, spraying the volatile substance in a high arc, swirling in the vortices inside the Veil. He cocked an ear, listening.

Faint hissing, like sand falling on concrete, was audible. Tiny clicks of degrading quartz punctuated the hiss at regular intervals, every two seconds if one paid attention. It had been noticeable for long minutes beforehand, but was now reaching the decibel requirement for more obvious notice. It made Karl's skin prickle, raw time rushing through the hourglass like lava in its tubes. But this was not deep underground, far from civilization, or some marvel reacting to the next dimensional-plane over. This was a literal, ticking Time Bomb in the fifth worst possible location he could think. At least herethe blast _might _be mitigated by the Veil.

Using the bent tip of his blade, Karl adjusted one of the inner silver charms. The Sticking enchantment had decayed, exposed to raw Time as it had, shifting its position.

He cast his eyes over the rest of the tiny implements. Two others were lying on their side, a third toppling over as he watched. As it did so, he felt a withering sensation, especially on the exposed arm; he diverted focus, willing the flesh beneath to regain its youthful vigor – metamorphmagi held an incredible advantage when it came to aging, but it was both tiring and irritating to go against so much Time all at once.

Grumbling to himself, Karl righted the downed objects. At this rate, his escape was being cut down to seconds.

_'An escape is an escape,'_ he noted. _'But why does it have to be a last-moment escape? Why can't it ever be a leisurely stroll down a garden path? Explosions and teeth every time.'_

His wristband glowed a soft red, warnings written into the enchantments since they were constructed.

_'I know, I know there's a problem.'_ Karl adjusted another charm, and backed away. A long considered thought taking up more time than he'd like saw his wand slipping into the waiting dragon tattoo's maw. By timing his footfalls to land as each second passed, he hoped to avoid causing any more Sand to descend – not that superstition had worked before. _'Just a few more … just a few more ….'_

He turned to flee, and heard the telltale sound of glass collapsing on a stone floor. Magic, rough and fast pushed against him, flowing towards the Veil.

Abandoning caution, Karl sprang for the doorway. The steps rose like the pathway to an ancient monastery. He panted at each stride, straining whip-cord muscle-mass into lifting, pushing, _lunging_ … why did thoughts of Shangri-La return at the worst moments? The staircase had nothing in common with the Time-Lost city. No, he had to focus, fight the deadly trap. Apparition was impossible, what with the complex currents shredding the room's thaumic atmosphere.

_'I'm not going to make it,'_ the doorway looked smaller. The _Vanishing Effect_, some called it; when an individual had to traverse a specific distance within an amount of time too small for that transit. _'Chaos take it. Chaos take it all. One more minute and escape would have been mine.'_ An amusing thought tickled his subconscious, young Lovegood might have appreciated it. _'And I would've gotten away with it if it weren't for those nosey kids ….'_

His legs stretched longer, granting precious inches to his efforts. Stronger forces pushed back, driving an inaudible wind against his very bones. Sand didn't care about people, time ignored little things like morals and rights. But magic? Magic was the antithesis to nigh everything. When dragons overwhelmed stone walls, spells carried enchanted blades to their hearts. Old age was resisted through magic-infused potions, and common physics became so twisted that time itself could be given battle.

Karl strained, using what little power remained his own. Herculean effort drove his muscles into high-definition beneath the robes. His one visible arm could have been used as a model for statues, so much power he'd wound into its tissues. But the doorway's yawning opening sat too far, and the silent howl of temporal-induced attractions joined efforts, simultaneously pulling and pushing at his exhausted body.

Desperation fueled another surge from his limbs. He ascended another step, then another. Victory seemed within his grasp, a point higher than before.

Then he felt the tiny, incremental shift. Momentum slipped the last fractional balancing point over to the unhelpful side, reducing his advantage into the negative aspect. First one foot caught a toe on the stair, throwing him to a knee, then the higher rise clipped his elbow. It sent him sprawling back towards the ravenous maw once used as an ancient Artifact. Four steps short, and he remained stuck on the fifth. Funny, he'd always liked that number before; odd yet foundational to even numbers. Now it betrayed him.

"Karl!"

Or perhaps not.

He looked up. Against all odds, Nymphadora Tonks stood, hanging through the room's highest riser, hair whipping wildly in the wind. Fleur's flushed face peered through as well, hanging onto the woman's arm, while also holding onto the door frame itself. Between the two, Nymphadora's hand hung lower, almost within Karl's grasp.

"Grab my hand!" Her instructions stated the obvious, evidence of official Auror training. Most civilians couldn't manage a disciplined thought under duress. But there was an obvious escape route visible; her Time-Turner was dangling between the two women, poised for action.

It went against every rule in the Temporal discipline, not to mention the understanding he'd thought they'd possessed: flee with the robe. But with Nymphadora present, the Time-Turner collection was present as well – although he couldn't quite see it. Perhaps she'd dropped it off earlier? In any case, travelling through time in his current condition was … inadvisable in the extreme, on par with making bargains with an Elder. On the other hand, for the first time in long years, it was _his _life to risk. Was he worth it?

Internally, he scoffed. That was a stupid question.

Karl lunged, pushing the last of his strength into a final effort. Long fingers wrapped around his wrist, complemented by his own. When a Metamorphmagus decided to hang on, the end result compared favorably to dock clamps.

"I've got 'im!" Nymphadora screamed against the keening wind. She released the door frame, dropping the long chain to wrap around their entwined grip. "Go!"

Fleur's slender fingers grasped the Time-Turner chassis, and rotate the object. For one frozen second, Karl could see sand spill from one side of the glass to the other, eternity in an hourglass. Then the welcome oscillating field settled, blocking out the freakish blasts. Time began to move backward; feet jumping past their position, dark-booted Death Eater garments floating over scarred dragonhide., mixing with the casual garb of Dumbledore's group. But the sight began to shudder in a fashion he knew was impossible.

Schoolchildren raced past, led by an Unspeakable he recognized as himself. They ran in reverse, as was expected in the situation, but as they did so, the youngest Lovegood turned to look straight at him, and smile.

Karl remembered that. She'd spun in place, grinning like an idiot at a vague spot on the wall, giggling before resuming their trek. His respect for the girl rose a notch, but so did his wariness.

Time spun faster, he could tell by the increased weight pushing down on his heels. Nymphadora was squealing like an unsupervised child in a confectionary shop, blasting one side of his head in sound. On the metamorphmagus's other side, Fleur could be seen staring in wild fascination, hair flying in a nimbus of silvery light – and seeming to be biting her lip. He resolved once more to find some method of remuneration for the pain.

Worry gnawed at his stomach as their trip through time slowed. Now he could see the conflict they'd undergone in the bowels of the Department of Mysteries. _Here_ he was performing a stutter-step attack on two low-tier Death Eaters; a few moments further temporal distance allowed him to behold Nymphadora racing down the hall, an encompassing curse billowing from her wand down the length in a collapsing miasma of terror.

Their Time-Skip slowed further, making the figures fight at half-speed. Worry clenched into fear in Karl's abdomen. Quickly he reached into the final pouch, kept closest to his skin, separated by dragon-hide and the metal alloys most resistant to Time itself. To his horror his own movements were slowing – telltale signs of a full Time Stop, an infrequent, but all-too-real horror of all Temporal Operatives. 'Living Statues' some called it, permanence in existence, untouchable, dying by thirst and starvation over the course of centuries. But there was a way to escape it.

Slowly his hand touched the pouch, fingertips shaping themselves just enough to press the correct runic sequence. With glacial speed, the leather-like opening widened.

A neutral-colored substance hissed out, spilling across Karl's torso. He adjusted his form, resisting the Time Sand's ravaging effect on organic tissue. Breathing a word of command injected life to the colorless powder, turning it a golden yellow splash across the trio. As it did so he could feel the lethargic sensation vanish, replaced by the jolting energy associated with Time going wild.

Bright sparks jumped from the glowing aura, arcing around the trio. Homing in on mortals as he knew it could, the tiny lines of power touched any exposed skin, sending tingles ricocheting from point of impact to his core and back. On Fleur however, the silvery bracelet attracted the majority of power strikes, dissipating their collective efforts into a half-formed shield. The shield expanded as more power funneled into its influence, catching up to the few bolts ignoring the bracelet's attraction.

Karl managed to regain movement to his arm once more, reaching over to touch the Time-Turner still in Nymphadora's hand. It burned an angry red glow at his touch. He pulled back, wincing at the pain.

"Disconnect!" he bellowed at the Auror. His mind, even undergoing the current stress, noted how her hair was literally pulsating in time with the throbbing pulse of time, shifting from silver to gold and back in regular intervals. He pulled himself back to the present. "Hit Emergency disconnect!"

Nymphadora's hair turned a bright blue, her lips pursing in concentration. The look was at odds with the chaotic scenery now shimmering around them like a silent film under the control of a demented poltergeist – not that Karl knew of any _sane _poltergeist, but the principle was the same. Her own fingers, moving a touch slower than Karl's being further from the Time Sand, closed around the hourglass's containment ring, deciphering options until the brilliant ruby-colored bezel rotated into place. Metal ring clicked into place, halting the Time-Turner's progress.

Time stopped once more, then restarted in the proper direction, dropping the three travelers in a heap on the floor.

Groans – and one deep moan – emanated from the pile.

"Ow … when are we?" Nymphadora tugged herself free, reeling to lean against a nearby wall. It was a testament to the strangeness of the day that her question rose no eyebrows.

"_Merde … _oy … _**merde!**_**" **Fleur just collapsed further, quivering on the floor. She turned away from Karl's offered hand, curling slightly as she did so.

He desisted, choosing to tap his wrist once more. "M.I.R.R.O.R.: What time is it?"

A faint whir buzzed back. _"Sir, it is good to hear your voice intact and sane. I am well, and wish to convey my gratitude for your mannerly inquisitiveness."_

Karl rolled his eyes. It was a delight to do so again, and make the action suit the words with a full actual _roll_, sending the pupils spinning in their sockets. "Yes, yes. Sorry. I was fighting for my life. How are you?"

_"It is now Zero Plus twenty-three hundred hours and twenty seven minutes, thirty seconds."_ The voice continued. "_Auror Tonks is now turning back time from the Death Chamber, and will arrive here in five – four – "_

Frantic, Karl dove for a corner, reaching back to drag a resisting veela with him; her bulk may have been slight, but it was significant enough to cause strain. With it, Fleur's shaky efforts trying to help almost pulled him out of cover. He recovered in time, dragging them both behind a pillar. Safe, he pushed against the wall next to her, sliding his back against its reassuring solidity to a squatting position.

"There's a _reason_," he growled under his breath. "Half-_fae_ aren't made Unspeakables."

_"Oui_," she agreed, still trying to move under her own power. "_Zat_ … that … could be addicting."

He had just enough time to give her a puzzled look when the flash of a Time-Turner illuminated the room. Nymphadora, who had not moved, caught a second shaking Fleur, whilst a somewhat confused second Nymphadora regained her bearings.

The current iteration smiled at herself. "Hey there good lookin', just get sent back in the nick of time?"

After a moment's realization, the new arrival responded with a broad grin. "Sure thing, Gorgeous. Wow, that's even cheesier when I'm saying it to me …."

"Yeah," the first responded. "And this is the second time for me. Say, you have Karl's robes?"

"Got 'em right here," her doppelgänger brandished a dark Unspeakable-black set of fabric. "Need 'em?"

"Perfect timing. You need to go back and get Karl, he's going to be needing help in a few minutes." Nymphadora accepted the robes, slapping the doppelgänger veela on the back. "Hang in there Fleur, you can dream about this all night in a few hours."

A faint moan resonated from the huddled woman next to Karl. He winced, and chanced a sympathetic pat on her back. Beings sensitive to magic held great value to research, but exposing them to the raw power of Time was downright barbaric. He'd have to come up with something better than a protective armband, even if it had proven useful far earlier than expected.

After a few moments, the newly arrived pair took off down the hall. Second Fleur was taking the lead, apparently having memorized the route – another trick Karl would've felt compelled to report had he any compulsions left for the Department. Having none, he instead resolved to take advantage of that trait if possible.

"Right, found me, got the stuff back," Nymphadora – the contemporary version – strolled up to Karl and tossed him his robes. "Um, sorry we didn't talk about that in advance. It kinda happened real fast. So now all we gotta do is get to Harry and Sirius, and we'll be golden!"

Karl cast his eyes heavenward. "Thank you Ridcully. Um … why Harry?"

The Auror gave him a look that questioned the basic intelligence behind such a question. "I'm an Auror, you're an Unspeakable. Bad guys everywhere, and Harry's enough of a trouble magnet to draw them all together. Find Harry, find the bad guys, and we do our job. Unless you're leaving now?"

Tempted, Karl fingered the torn sleeve of his robe. It would be so easy to leave now; reinforcements had arrived, assisting wayward charges. The Department was secure – or as much as it could be without a full refitting, fulfilling his oaths. Besides, even tacit approval of employing children in war was an action he resisted taking. Did he really want to get into such a battle, so soon after achieving true freedom? Not to mention exhausted, needing to resupply, injured, and possessing enough irritation to compete with a dragon?

He looked up to meet Nymphadora's challenging gaze. Fleur's own questioning look bracketed him from the other side. Since when did he answer to anyone other than the Rules or himself?

Still, he found himself agreeing. Young Potter was important to the Dark Lord. The young wizard had mentioned a prophecy, confirmed by the various mutterings he'd overheard from the other Death Eaters – a true Prophecy-Proclaimed Hero if one paid attention to the older tomes. That made him important to keep safe, and _no one _knew the Ministry's secret passages better than a Temporal Operative. Now that the matter rotated through his mind, he could recall one that could offer a mild mitigation of his supplies issue.

Bone tired, he dragged the robes around himself, pulling the hood up so its protective enchantments activated. When he spoke it was once more in the hoarse bass tones of an Unspeakable. "I know a short cut."

* * *

The Lobby was a testament to wizarding genius. It rose to enormous heights without breaking through the concealing magics protecting this little section of London. For all intents and purposes, the Ministry building did not exist in the same plane as London proper, much as the concept of Tomorrow never became Today. At one point it had been as corporeal to everyone as the Rock of Gibraltar, but after the Statute of Secrecy came into effect, a little-known champion of mental gymnastics had created the brief suspension of reality now known as the Ministry.

Karl double-checked his bandoleer. There had been little time, but he'd at least managed to acquire a new sword, and refill perhaps a third of the empty spots. There were no prohibited items like the Garotte Gas or Petrification Plaster, but at least he had the reliable concussive phials, and his limited shapeshifting skills.

"So where did you get the flash-bangs?" Nymphadora asked conversationally. They were not quite running up a passageway leading to the Lobby, lit sconces providing light every dozen feet.

"Old recipe with a new twist," Karl tapped the mud-like container. "A student at Hogwarts seems to be a sort of savant with potions, invents new ones every week. This one almost deafened the entire class, by the report."

The Auror frowned. "Odd … I'd have thought my department would've heard about a potions prodigy. Ever since Snape took over there's been precious few graduates from England."

"Would you mean … what was his name?" Fleur was keeping up with ease, after recovering from the malaise Karl'd notice affected her every Time Jump. "A friend of 'Arry's? He is becoming quite popular. Dark hair, brown eyes, always with Miss Bones and Miss Abbot?"

The metamorphmagus cast a disbelieving look her way. "You were there for a year, I get that. But you were training, working to survive the Triwizard Tournament, beating off every boy that couldn't resist a Pygmy Puff, and you had time to memorize relationships?"

Fleur gave a serene look in return. "It does not overly tax my mind. It is a … how do you say? Occupational hazard, yes? All expect the veela to understand such things. It is not as interesting as Runes, but it helps the mind stay active."

Karl ignored the banter. "Research later. Fight soon."

The sounds of battle coming from through the opaque darkness ahead proved him right. Flashes of multi-colored light managed to force their way through the covering plate, hinting at high-capacity magics proceeding. In accordance to protocol. Karl did a quick visual check through a side panel before slapping the Vanishing enchantment attached to the covering. In the Lobby he could see multiple figures jerking about, casting battle spells with as little fire discipline as the first rookie combat training class over in the Auror division. Dumbledore's people were once more showing varied skills, and astonishing naiveté, working alone or in pairs but ignoring the others in favor of their own target.

Off in the darkened recesses, he could hear a faint howl, the haunting cry of a heartbroken wizard confronted with the source of his loss. It bore a faint resemblance to _'Harry'_ … but the chaos made identification difficult.

By contrast the Death Eaters were behaving like professionals, switching targets in tandem, forcing movement and covering fire. Rookwood was in the back, blood-soaked bandages exhibiting the damage done by Karl's Room Cleaner – the fact that he was alive was impressive, let alone directing tactics in an injured state.

"Suggestions?" he glanced back at the professional Auror behind him.

She gave him a look. "I thought you had control of this operation? All the 'go here, stay there, come with me' stuff?"

"Temporal specialist," shrugging communicated indifference better than words. "When Time Travel is involved, I'm the best choice. I'm not here in another Causality Loop, I don't see evidence of a Time-Skip. This is a fight outside of my field. You're a professional."

Her demeanor turned serious, as she took another look. "I'll buy that. That wizard in the back, burn marks and blood. Is he the ringleader?"

"Rookwood. Outside of the Dark Lord, he's considered one of them."

"Fleur," the metamorphmagus turned. "What's the range on your fireballs again? It looked pretty good from today."

The veela looked up from an idle polishing of her wand. "Hm? It is ... twenty meters – perhaps sixty feet as you English say. They may go further, but it is no guarantee of accuracy."

"It's an illusion arrangement," Karl added. "An old trick of his when injured, can't imagine many changes since his stay in Azkaban. Set up a projected self and hide. He has to be within eyesight of the projection, but it's not him."

"Six to one, half a dozen to the other," Nymphadora shrugged. "Fleur, you plaster the bastard with fireballs; after two barrages, support me. I'll try to snipe dear uncle Lucius and aunt Bella, then move on to targets of opportunity. Karl, you find Harry if he's here and get him to safety."

Karl had to agree with her logic. He knew the passages better than almost anyone, and held minimal offensive potential as a wizard. Time-displaced doppelgänger actions aside, he was a Temporal Operative not some testosterone-laden monster. "On your mark then."

Intense heat warmed his back through the damaged robes, a phantasm-like eldritch glow making weird shadows on the passageway walls. Behind them, Fleur held a ball of _Passionfyre_ in hand, studying its multidimensional properties with a gleam in her eye. A second orb filled her other hand, doubling the lighting's eerie impact. When she sought his eye, there was a definite inhuman nature evident, an atavistic slit-pupiled appearance found more commonly in birds of prey than thinking people.

"Three," Nymphadora held her wand poised, dark power coiling around its tip in a spiral pattern. "Two. One."

Karl tapped the release mechanism. The opaque field dissipated into a dense fog that somehow failed to obscure their vision. He hung back as the Auror launched her spell, followed closely behind by the inhuman screech of veela fireballs, making the very air recoil in pain. A split-second later the female pair leaped out, launching a second fusillade as they fell.

Waiting until their distracting entrance moved away, Karl resealed the panel and hurried. Sounds of combat echoed through the smaller maintenance corridor, but this time it included the sounds of fire. At least one Death Eater was struck, Karl could hear his screams through the walls, which meant the Dark Lord's faithful had been standing nearby. _That _in turn meant young Potter must be elsewhere.

Another view revealed nothing but Aurors Shacklebolt and Moody standing back to back, fending off a flanking attack. Karl fired a low-grade lubricant conjuration at the floor near a pair of Death Eaters.

He moved on before checking its effect, almost tripping over the edges of his robes. _Harry,_ he had to get to _Harry._ Time Demons and assorted monsters of ephemeral natures were simple enough for a wizard of his skills. But a true Dark Lord, a Prophecy-Be-Damned-_Hero_? That was far above his pay grade.

Karl skidded to a stop, orienting himself. The problem with the Lobby is that there were so very few secret passages surrounding it. Logical of course, a high-traffic area would tempt people to use the secret byways, which tended to reduce the secrecy involved. Observant civilians walked through the Lobby every day, as did Ministry personnel – part of the nature of a Lobby after all. All it meant for himself at the moment was that there was no emergency safe passage other than the one he'd just left, and an exit just ahead, too far to be effective for any of the combatants.

_"Better late than never,"_ he pushed for the second exit, blowing through it in a burst of dark smoke. _"Hate that dramatic dyed gypsum. What idiot decided every public exit had to have a flare of staged crap?"_

Further reflections took a back seat as Karl's senses screamed. He tumbled behind a pillar as a stray transfiguration galloped into the wall, one of the statues from the Fountain of Magical Brethren given motion. It careened off the dark stone, smashing tiles with its golden body, shaking it off with quite a show of realism before charging out of sight.

Karl stared after it. _"What. The. Hell."_

Immense pressure billowed into the room, bringing even professional soldiers to a pause. To Karl's senses, it was the raging fury of a sand storm, hurricane-force winds wider than entire countries looming overhead at heights above mountains. It felt like the sun's complete attention was brought to bear on one's position, heating the storm's particulates to searing temperatures, threatening to suffocate, burn, and flay all at once if displeased. Very few magical beings in recorded history carried the raw power to do such a thing, to intimidate battle-hardened soldiers as a child scared of the dark. The Death Eaters responded with fierce joy, proving lax discipline by dropping their fight, shooting celebratory sparks and sound bursts into the air – but there were exceptions for Dumbledore's associates.

A harsh cry responded across the hall, inhuman and enraged. As it sliced through the air, another presence became noticeable. Where the sandstorm was rage and the brilliant sun, this was an implacable mountain. It was what sand became after collecting under immense pressure, time and the forces of nature for millennium, immune to such minor things as fire, death, and time. Diamond was a poor comparison for the durability it conveyed. It was a presence that did not so much overwhelm as ignore everything but what it deemed important. Neither armies nor bolts hurled from on high affected its thoughts, nor shifted its juggernaut progress. This was the power relegated to legend, stepping into battle.

Karl froze under the force of the two Brobdingnagian presences. When the gods made war, mere mortals sought cover.

"You should never have come here, Tom." The mountainous presence glittered and shifted in Karl's senses, moving towards the far side of the hall. Its voice was even, casual in fact, but nigh vibrating with power. "The Aurors are on their way, your followers … depleted."

Hissing sibilant laughter struck exposed ears with pain, the raging sandstorm made flesh. The voice rose and fell with theatrical practice, embodying well-earned arrogance. "Dumbledore. By the time they arrive, I shall be gone. And _you _… shall be dead."

The world shifted, both presences summoning magic in an instant that would've taken Karl months of magical conservation. Explosions of color flared across the Lobby, blinding in their brilliance. It was a sobering realization, that such powerful entities could not only exist but affect common lives by intentional action. A stray thought could swat an incautious wizard across the hall in an instant.

Karl caught sight of Potter, struggling to break free of a headless golden statue of a wizard, which seemed intent on herding the young man away from battle. _Why _he had no idea, the Chief Warlock and the Dark Lord were exchanging spells that he'd have to replay later, the better to learn to avoid. But there the boy of Prophecy was, the statue edging him back and to one side.

Cursing to himself, the Operative put his head down and sprinted, taking care to keep as many obstacles between himself and the two monsters exchanging blows.

"Come on boy," he grabbed Potter's shoulder, and almost ate an explosive hex for his efforts. "Watch your fire! We have to get you out of here!"

"She killed Sirius!" Potter yelled back, gesturing at a huddled witch squirming beneath another golden statue, then at the vast whorls of magic occluding the far side of the room. "Do something!"

"Black is alive you idiot!" Karl launched a slicing curse at the downed Bellatrix. Her movements, countered by the statue's own motions, brought a golden limb into the line of fire deflecting the curse through an arm rather than her neck as intended. With luck she'd bleed out before receiving aid. "But we won't be if we stand around here! Run boy, run!"

Dark green eyes peered upwards, disbelief mixed with crushed hope. "He's … he's alive?"

Enhancing his good arm, Karl seized the youth's collar and heaved, accelerating their progress towards the exit. "Fly, you fool!"

Potter was heavier than he looked, reducing the forceful movement. The young man spun, power rolling off in waves, eyes glowing in verdant rage.

Karl rolled his eyes and drew his sword, twisting the young man around by one shoulder. Using the flat he struck Potter's buttocks. "_Move!_"

The action galvanized action at last, sending him back the way they'd come. To the young man's credit, he had a clean pair of heels once motivated. They'd serve him well, if he lived long enough. For now, they'd keep him alive – if nothing else happened.

Lashing his mind for conjuring trouble, Karl followed. Swapping hands to wield his wand with the good arm, he pelted past the mustached man, who was trading advanced-looking martial arts blows with a man of similar appearances. By the eye color and elongated fingernails, it was a werewolf, possessing superior reflexes and strength compared to mortals, which meant Mr. Mustache was a werewolf as well. Interesting company, the Order kept.

Karl wanted to wait, to throw a vial of silver curative at the opposing beast's eyes. But Potter was drawing ahead and he couldn't wait. Instead he tossed a hurried piercing hex at the unknown werewolf, grunted in disappointment as it missed, and ran on.

The pair made swift progress, reaching the furthest corner where fighting seemed at least differently chaotic, the titanic magics of Dumbledore and Voldemort forcing everyone else into the small spaces furthest away. Nymphadora and Fleur were quick to see the both of them, withdrawing to cover their retreat. Very few Death Eaters seemed eager to engage after witnessing the screaming form of Augustus Rookwood flailing in a self-inflicted pit of water yet burning under _Passionfyre's _effect. Two additional wizards had fallen to the otherworldly flame, but it seemed no more would. One witch – Karl could tell only because the Death Eater hood was partially torn, allowing long hair to spill free – was performing suppression fire on the veela, forcing her back.

Long heartbeats later, Karl saw the unkempt Black. The wild-eyed wizard was flinging himself into battle, firing potent attacks with reckless abandon. Two of Dumbledore's associates were watching his back, shielding him from hexes, Banishing rubble into oncoming spells, but their combined loss in offensive power was nothing compared to the sheer rage exhibited by the last Scion of the Blacks. The man was a fiend with his wand, inflicting pain on anything in dark robes, launching spells Karl had never even heard of before. One of the few he _did _recognize was forbidden to half the civilized world, except for its originating Family. It didn't explode through armor or make flashy transfigurations – it passed through barriers because it caused no harm, in fact it healed targets of all harm.

The danger lay in how it cured the desire to even _inflict_ harm. A terrifying curse to be sure.

"Sirius!" his charge screamed, snapping Karl's analysis to a close. "_Sirius_!"

The Operative could've slapped the young fool for his efforts; there were less dangerous ways to attract attention in a fight.

This time however the tactic worked. The gaunt man of hair as dark as his name spun in place, sighted Karl and launched a colorless blast – which Karl managed to divert with his blade. The metal shattered under the force, lowering his opinion of Operative Thirteen's abysmal upkeep habits. But the magic had been dispelled enough so the rest spattered in harmless globules against his robes.

Karl glared, but the effect was lost on who mattered. Gone was the demonic form incarnate. The two guardians were back on combat, shielding each other and launching spells at will. They likely expected Karl to raise protective barriers – an impossibility.

He turned his glare on useless slab of metal in hand. Putting his back into it, he threw the pommel, and targeted it with a Banishment, sending it arrowing across the Lobby. Given the distance its accuracy was negligible, but it still caused a distraction by pinning a Death Eater's robes to the wall.

Moody wasted no time slapping cuffs and a muzzle on the masked wizard. The metal seemed to be a modified Auror-issue variety, crammed with more runes than a goblin's safe. More than Karl was comfortable seeing on such a small bit of metal, but Moody's paranoia held _rumors_ of excess, not actual proof. He knew at least the incident with a carriage clock had come at a bad time, following triple back-to-back hazard-pay protection details.

Rumbling from the far sides of the Lobby drew his attention. The Floos were activating, Ministerial overrides unblocking the stops in place. Green flames billowed out rectangular openings, shadowy figures in combat-regulation robes flashing into existence at unpredictable intervals. It was a response made by ancient protocols first developed by minds fearful of Jacobite terrorist attacks over two centuries before, Aurors and Hit Wizards tumbling out different entrances at randomized points. After each wizard appeared, the Floo chuffed another cloud of dark matter, as if another wizard were appearing; sometimes it was, many times it was not, misdirection in its most basic.

The Death Eaters switched tactics, reversing course in professional leapfrog fashion. Karl knew there were fewer than a dozen of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named's inner circle, which meant either more had arrived, his eyes were playing tricks on him, or the Death Eaters were using illusions. It was a tactic they'd used before to great effect – hence the development of protective eye-wear such as he wore now.

Tapping his sunglasses once more, he cut through some of the illusions, noting the originals were Apparating away in an organized fashion. One was stooping over Bellatrix, hauling her away, although the state of her existence was still suspect. Someone, Moody likely, launched an overpowered blasting hex in their direction, but the pair vanished as it arrived.

A scream of fury made the hall shake, followed by an explosion strong enough to break every visible crystal structure.

Karl stepped before Harry, wand extended low right, exposed arm back behind his protective robes. A few shards of glass made it into range, but a more powerful barrier than he could produce blossomed into existence overhead.

He looked up to see Nymphadora smiling over in his way, Fleur at her back, still looking a touch … ruffled. There were still long feathers mixed in with her long hair at least, relaxing into long strands of hair once more. Then a thought came to mind, making his eyes widen.

"Miss Delacour," he stepped their way, short rapid strides. "You need to get out of here. _Ténébreuse_._"_

An angry look crossed her features, sending the hairs into feather-like qualities once more. Then they relaxed. "_Certainmente,_" she nodded. Then, surprising him, she stepped forward, pushing under his hood to press a quick peck on his cheek. "Thank you."

A heartbeat later she vanished in a flurry of pale apparition particles, leaving Karl dumbstruck. The nearby Auror was equally silent, hair dropping a limp brown color. Then it whirled a riot of colors, settling upon her usual pink. Moving with grace he never expected to see from his old friend, she darted close, invading his hood to slam a forceful kiss square on his lips. She held him there for long seconds before pulling back, looking like the cat that caught the canary. "Brainy blonde can't beat a 'morph at _everything_."

Karl stared. Multiple Occlumency divisions shut down; they could resist Time Demons, Legilimency, entire days of fatigue … but there were some things biological programming overrode as a matter of course.

She waved a few fingers at him. "Talk later? Better go before the Aurors catch me." Her own apparition was accompanied by bell-like laughter, bringing back memories.

Snickering emanated from Karl's flank. He shifted to see the scruffy-looking Lord Black making a valiant effort to cover his lower jaw. But when he noticed Karl looking, he gave up, letting loose with barking-like laughter.

Turning his shoulder to the amused ex-convict, Karl scanned the rest of the room. Shacklebolt was nowhere in sight, a good sign. Neither of the Ministry-looking employees were present either, the short red-haired man and the woman with large glasses. The rest of the school children were absent as well, save for the girl with all the questions. She was headed for young Potter at a dead run.

Back in the direction of the duel, a girlish scream rang out. "No! It's … it's …!"

An outraged hiss responded, following by an Apparition overload so powerful as to shake the room. The Death Eaters within eyesight followed suit, apparating in small whorls of twisted time and space. Each sent a tingle through Karl's spine, like the sand at a beach trembling underfoot as waves crashed ashore.

Several dark-robed figures were unable to escape. Multiple dark figures lay on the ground, bound against small obelisks Karl recognized as temporary Anti-Apparition emplacements. One was pinned to the wall by the remains of his borrowed sword. He smiled at that – not that the action could be seen beyond the confines of his hood.

A gasp of shock brought his attention back to the present. A tubby man in green, matching bowler hat lying at his feet, stared at him, then at Sirius Black. His mouth went wide. "Aurors! Death Eater! It's _Sirius Black!_"

"Now, now Cornelius," the measured tones of a very familiar voice soothed. "Not all that wear black are Death Eaters."

The Minister's wild-eyed expression softened, but his wand remained pointed at Karl, although why he couldn't tell. The man's grip was terrible, more suited for miniscule motions in delicate charms rather than the authoritative combat-spells common to the unpracticed. Unless the man held hidden depths, he'd drop his wand at the first casting. "And that's not Sirius Black?"

"Oh, I'm me all right," the dark-haired man released Potter into the care of a concerned younger woman. "But I'd _love _to have an actual trial. You know, one with witnesses, a judge, a sentencing? All the things I never got. Very depressing for a Pureblood like myself."

"But … but …." The political man seemed puzzled. "No. No no no no no, this can't be happening …."

"Minister." Karl stepped in. "Unspeakable Fifteen-Orange, Sigma division. Temporal Operative."

The man transferred his stare back, looking alarmed, but also intrigued. "Temporal? I didn't know the Department had agents available for combat. Goodness knows I asked earlier this year."

"We don't." He looked at the former Headmaster, then back at the Minister. "You are required to take an Oath of Silence in regards to my presence. Otherwise I am authorized to remove your memories, in accordance to Ministerial Decree Eta Beta Pi, Tango-India-Mike."

It was a ludicrous order name, but after the night he'd had, Karl needed a _little _fun.

"What? You can't expect me … wait. _Ministerial Decree?_" Cornelius Fudge peered at him. "I don't recall giving that order."

"You won't. Not without the assistance of a professional Mind Healer," Karl shrugged the question away. "Unimportant now. You are the highest ranking Ministry personnel on site. If you give me your oath, I will be able to give you my report."

Despite the apparent danger, the Minister seemed to preen a little. "Well … I suppose if I am the ranking wizard, then I must, mustn't I? How does the oath go?"

"If I may, Cornelius?" Dumbledore produced a length of parchment and a quill from one sleeve, handing it to Karl. "Your pardon, I must ensure my students are returned to Hogwarts in good health. Are you ready, Harry?"

The pudgy man's expression slackened. "Harry … _Potter_? He's – _you're _here?"

"I will explain, Minister." Dumbledore's singed eyebrows detracted a little gravitas from his grandfatherly expression, but otherwise enhanced the appearance of a powerful Sorcerer. "I have half an hour at my disposal; Unspeakable, perhaps a division of labor is necessary? It would render the Oath unnecessary."

Karl caught on. "Of course. If you will brief the Minister, I will secure the former prisoner. I will perform a follow-up check on your students, of course. It has been a long evening."

"Indeed," twinkling eyes approved. "I believe there are two Aurors coming now?"

Shacklebolt strolled up, looking fresh, Nymphadora just behind. Her own appearance looked rumpled, as if recently awakened. "Minister? Headmaster?"

"Oh. Kingsley. Yes. Um." Fudge paused, then straightened. "Please escort Mister … Black … to a proper holding facility. Apparently not all I was told about his status was correct. Unspeakable Fifteen here will oversee the transfer."

Karl smiled; politics at their best. He lowered his voice to the semi-malevolent tones expected of one in his line of work. "Mister Black. I have a very special place waiting for you … Aurors?"

Shacklebolt stepped forward, securing Black with a set of cuffs. Meanwhile Dumbledore summoned the head of a statue, handing it to Potter and Granger. Fudge's squawk as the two vanished, but Karl ignored it. There were more important things to be concerned about, like the way Nymphadora was eyeing him like a flank steak.

"Auror," he put away his wand, dropping his voice to even lower levels thanks to the unleashed capabilities. "Please ensure my … _guest _is secure. Are you aware of the holding facility in Soho?"

She paused. "Nossir." Her back turned to the Minister and Dumbledore, she dropped a wink. "But you can show me _everything_ if you want."

Unspeakables didn't sigh. It damaged their mystique, evinced short attention spans, and was considered bad manners in many circles. It was not to be done before outsiders if possible, and _certainly _not before Ministers. But at the moment, Karl was tempted to express exasperation on a level beyond mortal limits. This was going to be a long night.

* * *

**A/N: **Chapter 12 is the final chapter. This tale was designed to show off how the DoM _could_ have gone, if someone was a little more conscientious. A sequel might be in the works, but I write slow. Quality over quantity (I hope!), and there are two other Monster Musume stories that are _almoooost _done ... the biology irks me in a professional sense. If you want a sequel to this story, just let me know and I can bump it higher on priority. Thank you for reading, it's been a blast writing!


	13. Epilogue

He gave the halls one last look. Everything remained silent, presence forbidden by the warning sigil inserted within the Department matrices. At least, all _official _visitors. Any Unspeakable with sufficient seniority could override the Forbiddance. Of course, the fact that it was a Temporal indicator helped; even the most reckless Field Operative hesitated when facing chrono-magics. But it was best to finish the plan.

Raising his wrist, Karl pressed the next-to-last charge on his wristband. "M.I.R.R.O.R."

_'Yes, sir?'_ the metallic voice responded.

"Initiate Mop-up. Codeword: Excelsior."

_'Understood sir. If I may be so bold, please reserve the final charge for my installation when you achieve a new base of operations.'_

"Agreed." Karl let one hand drift across the stone walls. It had been a second home, of sorts. The personnel were respectful, intelligent, and minded their own business. More times than not, their assistance meant success or failure to his own work. But living in constant fear, that an accidental revelation would render his employment from _voluntary _to _indentured_ rendered the entire enterprise worthless.

In the distance, the echoing shriek of an Unspeakable's office being evaporated pierced the halls. An action irreversible to any Unspeakable, no matter what rank they'd achieved. Its destruction spoke more than any pretty speech, written or uttered.

He nodded once again. "File the final Action Report. Operative U-15 signing off."

Karl's gloved hand smashed an orichalcum eradicator stylus into the Forbiddance, releasing control of the Department of Mysteries to its proper masters. Gathering his own power once more, Karl heard the sound of incoming apparitions, and performed his own apparition. His last glimpse of an old life showed dark-robed figures arriving, wands out and containment cantrips on their lips.

If visible, the very last they'd see of _him _would have been a wide smile. He was _free._

* * *

Hogwarts had not changed since the last time he'd visited. Its solid walls rose hundreds of feet, protecting their fragile charges behind enchantments older than the Magna Carta. Hints of Gaelic influence were evident in the older sections, the carved stones deep in the foundation and close to the inner halls. Roman influences were obvious as well, if one looked to the arched door frames, and the Latinized inscriptions on the keystone therein.

Karl paused at a Nordic statue, admiring its simple lines from the depths of his hood. Light footsteps pattered behind him, but slowed not far away. Something small and warm rubbed itself against his leg, purring loudly.

"Argus, Una." Karl reached down to administer a friendly rub between the cat's pointed ears. "You two doing well?"

A harsh voice, strained through the filter of years hard labor answered. "Aye. This past year was somethin'. But we survived. Yourself?"

Karl held out a hand flat, tilting it first one way then another. "Eh. Been better. Been worse."

"Ach." The man's fading hair came into sight as he limped into sight. "Came back to school then. Didn't learn enough, eh?"

A tired chuckle escaped, Karl let it go. "Sometimes it feels like I've never left this place. Always learning, never actually mastering anything."

Filch nodded. "Aye, that's the way things be, lad. Hasn't changed for me, no matter how many centuries I spend watching the world pass. Only three so far, but still … it's the principle of the thing."

Another laugh forced its way through. "Still functional immortal to me, Argus. How long have you been working for the Department?"

"Eh," the older man reached down, inviting the cat to jump, which she did. Light paws carried the brown and black feline to the caretaker's shoulders, where she sat, looking down at Karl. "Only a half a century or so. Maybe half again."

"Seventy-five years." Karl turned his attention back to the statue, mind wandering back. "Did you know their procedure on … gifted … mages?"

"Looked into it maybe sixty, seventy years ago," Filch admitted. "Then Una had 'er accident, and most of my research's been on Transfiguration." The cat gave Filch's ear an unhappy nuzzle. "Nah, nah my sweet. We'll see you back in shape soon."

The statue examined, Karl's feet wandered higher, ascending the towers steps. Filch followed, soft leather boots making little sound on the stone floor. Dumbledore's office had access points from many floors, although they all seemed to wind back upon themselves. One of his scholastic assignments had been to identify the known routes, and discover unknown paths, if they existed.

"Is Una doing better?" he asked.

"Ach, aye!" Filch rubbed the cat's ears again. "She could keep her form for a few days last time. Meant I was tired for a week, but that's down too, used to be a full month 'afore we could try again."

"That's great news!" Karl paused to slap the shorter man's back. The cat meowed a complaint at the rough movement, but it had a satisfied quality. "You two will be back in action before you know it."

"Well, maybe." Filch shared a long look with the cat. "Might be moving on, truth be told. After this year and that Toad … playing along is one thing, youngster. But keeping the worst of it off the Toad and having Una run the memory charms? Exhausting. Now with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named on the loose, and infiltrating the Department … to paraphrase an old friend: 'How long may we continue this idyllic life?'"

"Until it's over." Karl looked up at the Headmaster's door, the gargoyles poised on either side. "This is my stop. Best of luck in your future efforts, Cleansweep."

A smile, an actual smile not the snaggle-toothed parody of a smirk most students saw, crossed Filch's face. "You too, youngster. The missus and I'll keep an eye out for you, even if you're not working in the Department."

"Oh, don't worry," the older man chuckled at Karl's startled expression. "I won't tell anyone. Obvious to those with eyes to see. The Oath is gone, but my associate is still there."

With a wink, the caretaker walked away, shoulders slumping into the hunched posture displayed by minor villains and their aides. Mrs. Norris skipped down and looked back, delivering her own very deliberate wink, before trotting away.

With a sigh, Karl focused on the nearest gargoyle. It looked back with a sardonic glare. Perhaps it remembered the somewhat less-than-charitable charms work Nymphadora and he applied to their structure? There had been enough befuddlement charms to stymie a giant, and those folk were considered immune to Mind magics. Besides, their memories were expunged every seven years, and the last cycling coincided just before their own graduation.

"Unspeakable Fifteen, to see the Headmaster." He inclined his head with a polite amount of courtesy. "If you would be so kind?"

Stone eyes looked him over, then lost focus. Seconds later they sharpened once more, and both gargoyles stepped aside, revealing the massive oak-beam door. Ancient iron clasps attached the work to the wall, just as overbuilt as the door itself. Karl imagined that the original structure had been designed around the original stand-alone keep. It had been a siege mentality then, when trolls hunted down the most powerful wizards they could smell and things that went _bump_ in the night were terrors to be feared.

Nowadays, trolls worked as security guards, or hung out in the wilderness. On their own field they were intelligent enough, but survival did not require the brains to quote _Othello_. Being able to flatten a werewolf with one fist was enough.

The spiral staircase wound up the circular tower, bringing him closer. Karl adjusted his hood, the better to hear voices speaking, calm tones of Auror Shacklebolt, punctuated by a higher pitched voice. He came to a stop on the sill, and pushed forward, not bothering to knock – the gargoyles were enough of an announcement to the Headmaster, and his was the only permission needed.

"—we cannot allow any harm to reach him!" a short, ponderous looking man finished. Gimlet eyes threw daggers at Karl, then recoiled as his dark robes registered. "Unspeakable? I-is there a problem?"

"Reason seldom poses a problem," Karl reached back into his mental grab-bag of pithy sayings. "It is when emotion rules our reason when we encounter problems."

The ancient man behind the desk rose. "Unspeakable, thank you for coming."

He gave a short bow in response, saying nothing. Half of the game in public appearances was to remain silent. Bystanders assumed genius when nothing else could be seen, even if only the barest of hints suggested it.

Dumbledore's grim expression lightened, perhaps recognizing the tactic. "I believe you have met Aurors Shacklebolt and Tonks? This is Auror Muddlefoot, Chief Investigator for the Field Division."

Karl gave another short bow to Nymphadora, whom he now noticed was standing in a corner looking inconspicuous. Even her hair was a sedate brunette, sleek and under control. Then she flashed a mischievous smile in his direction. "Wotcher, Unspeakable."

"Auror." Karl kept his response quiet, even. "Investigator Muddlefoot. The Department has followed your career; you perform efficient work."

"You are too kind," Muddlefoot's expression looked strained. "Not to be rude, but if we may return to the point?"

Dumbledore sat once more, gesturing at chairs that had the appearance of recent abandonment. Muddlefoot sat, but Shacklebolt retreated to stand by Nymphadora. Karl chose to stand as well, drifting to a space beneath a portrait of former Headmaster Viridian. He'd always liked the wizard's book on curses, lighthearted though it had been. Most of the rumors surrounding the headmaster's legendary scowl had to do with an eternal jokester, one that enjoyed making people jump when he growled, perhaps not unlike some Unspeakables he'd met.

"As I was saying," Muddlefoot pulled out a quill. "He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named's return is putting everything on the back foot. I've had to cancel training exercises that have been scheduled years in advance, return fees, reassign half of my investigators to the fiasco – which reminds me. Unspeakable, what did the Death Eaters get away with from the Department?"

"Nothing."

The investigator scoffed. "They had access to the entire Ministry building last night. The Chief Warlock just confirmed this. You expect me to believe the entire compromised department was rifled through by Azkaban escapees and their accomplices, and escaped with _nothing?"_

Karl folded his hands before him, letting the long sleeves drop over their ends. "No more than I would expect the Judiciary to allow a Noble such as Lord Sirius Black to stay in Azkaban without trial for over a decade. No, I do not expect you to believe it. My report should reach your desk within the day, after confidential material is eradicated."

The investigator looked unhappy, but unsurprised, the mark of a professional being stonewalled. Karl waited, just long enough for the pause to become unbearable, before withdrawing a rolled parchment from his sleeve. "Considering the potential danger of a returned Dark Lord, I took the liberty to draft multiple copies of my report. I imagine the Department might issue a redacted version for your perusal. Should there yet be Death Eater influence within the Department, it could even be incorrect by deliberate intent. This is my personal copy. It may prove useful."

Muddlefoot seized the parchment, looking it over. Karl had seen lovers of fine cuisine with less avaricious manners; the investigator treated the rolled up report like it was some lost scroll of Atlantis, and he the bankrupt treasure hunter that had spent everything to find it. "Yes, this … ah. Wait. There was _an Elder Horror_?"

"_Was._" Karl agreed. "I believe it was banished this morning."

"Fascinating …." The man skimmed the rest of the document, then rolled up the parchment. It slid into a deep pocket that snapped shut; Karl was sure teeth were visible. A Mokeskin pocket, proof against thieves. "I thank you for your honesty. It is quite refreshing."

"You may wish to deposit a copy at Gringotts before you return to the Ministry," Karl let a faint smile show, not that it could be seen from beneath his hood. "I would also advise purchasing a Gringott's Platinum Protection Plan, with a yearly reminder. Just in case."

The investigator exhaled a long breath. "Good point. Chief Warlock, if I may …?"

Dumbledore made an inviting gesture towards the fireplace. "By all means. May I compliment you on your thoroughness? Madam Bones is fortunate to retain your services."

"Thank you," the wizard sent a dash of the fluffy powder into the fire. "If you'll excuse – Gringotts! Much to do, see this through …."

A puff of green smoke backfired into the room, dissipating through the filter. The Phoenix Karl hadn't noticed coughed, iridescent fire shimmering between its feathers. The glittering glow made the few traces of greenish smoke disappear as they approached, and seemed to make its feathers shine. Finished, its beady eyes switched to Karl, studied him, and closed with a sigh.

"Excellent," Dumbledore intoned. His grandfatherly expression seemed to peer beneath Karl's hood. He was glad of the protective eyewear, even if it did seem a touch paranoid. "I find Fawkes a superb judge of character, although I should have guessed. He seems besotted with Ms. Delacour, and enjoys Nymphadoras' attentions when I am believed inattentive."

An irritated red pulsed through Nymphadora's hair. "Do _not _call me Nymphadora, Headmaster. I've said that how many times? He seemed neglected, that's all."

"Apologies, Miss Tonks," the Headmaster seemed to take the objection in stride. "But as the goblins are wont to believe, time is more valuable than social niceties. You were present in the Ministry last night, were you not, Operative?"

Karl nodded. "Indeed."

"You were instrumental, may I be safe in assuming, in preventing Voldemort's forces in acquiring a significant portion of resources? And to extrapolate further, interested in removing yourself from your current location?" Dumbledore's hands were steepled before his chest, intent in every line of his face.

"Without false modesty, I managed to assist in denying the Death Eaters resources," Karl made a half-turn, nodding at the two Aurors who stood at the far side of the room now. "However I received a great deal of aid from Aurors Tonks and Shacklebolt, and Miss Fleur Delacour. Minus their assistance, my efforts would have taken much longer, and allowed the Death Eaters to make off with substantial assets."

Dumbledore's eyebrows went up, then back down. "I will take your endorsement to heart; Miss _Tonks _and Kingsley have evinced great competence of course, but Miss Delacour has yet to be proven, aside from her sessions with Mister Weasley and Mister Doge. Another question, if you don't mind indulging an old man?"

Karl's head tilted. "If you are sure you wish to know the answer."

The older man gave a soft chuckle. "I believe I shall risk it: what is this Event of which I have heard those in Temporal studies speak?"

"Yeah," Nymphadora strolled to a chair, spinning it around so she could sit in it backwards. "Tell me a story, what was that thing, with the whatsit and the Veil?"

"The Veil?" The Headmaster's white eyebrows rose higher. "Sirius noted he was 'dancing with death', I presume this was not one of his normal exaggerations?"

Karl sighed, and reached into his sleeve again. A gentle lob landed another rolled parchment on Dumbledore's desk. "You might as well have a copy as well. In brief, an Event is an improbable scenario that results from excessive Time-Travel. Side-effects include Chronal-solipsism – that is to say, remembering actions you have not yet taken, experiencing memories that do not happen at all, and a potpourri of other issues."

"Typical Events may be anticipated, down to the second, but still create the least helpful situation that is plausibly possible." Karl glanced up at a portrait that was smiling gently. "It is believed that an Event is Magic's way of correcting imbalance. As a comparison, when a river is blocked, it applies greater pressure on the blockage. If the largest and most attractive dragons are harvested from a reserve, the dragons possessing less admirable attributes will reproduce, resulting in less attractive specimens in future generations. Likewise, a Temporal Event is considered Magic reacting to excessive irritation in a particular individual; forcing it to maintain coherence under stress causing stress of its own."

"I see," Dumbledore stroked his beard, deep in thought. "I had wondered. Your manual stipulates going to a very low-danger environment, such as an open field or a low-population forest. If the worst possible scenario occurs, there is less likelihood of it being quite as catastrophic."

"Or more so," Karl added. "If the Event is a Rift, there is little backup. Or a miscommunication could occur, and a Portkey preset could send a dozen groups to the same location. It is infrequent, but not improbable."

"Right," Nymphadora shook her head in mock despair. "Now that we've got that settled, do you … ah … have time to talk later Mister Unspeakable?"

"I should." Karl admitted. "However my current housing situation is under stress at the moment. I have a few backup locations, but none with suitable space for a pair of laboratories. A bit remote would be good too …." He flipped a hand, dropping the topic. "Irrelevant. Was there anything else Chief Warlock?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact," Dumbledore had an interested gleam in his eye now. "It segues beautifully, in fact. From what I understand, you are seeking alternative employment?"

Karl gave Nymphadora and Shacklebolt a long stare. "I am seeking lodgings at the moment. My funds are more than sufficient, which renders my financial needs minimal. Your interest is appreciated, of course."

"You are most welcome. But if you are willing to accept some assistance, I believe I know of a certain uninhabited island, owned by a mutual acquaintance. At the moment it is rather stark, there is a dilapidated old vacation home, and an Apparition point, but not much else. I will speak with our acquaintance if you are agreeable, a thanks if you will for denying Voldemort what was no doubt priceless research."

Karl considered the offer, tempted. His current best choice was the apartment hideout, but there were chances that the Department knew about it. It was filled with muggles as well, which might be affected by experiments needing to be re-installed as soon as possible. But accepting the offer would no doubt allow the old wizard a way to keep tabs on a former Unspeakable, one that had not undergone the standard memory wipes retired personnel were required to receive. Not that he cared about such things.

"Does this mutual acquaintance have a name?" He asked.

Nymphadora laughed. "It's Sirius you idiot. He's barely let Harry out of his sight after getting back, all about 'You need to learn this,' and 'When I was your age' that. He'd give you a French resort if you'd let him, the whole near-death experience seems to have shaken some sense back into his thick skull. And don't worry about the interior decorating. I know a veela with a good eye for that sort of thing. She's pretty insistent on helping out with the wards too, got a Gringotts Curse Breaker to vouch for her and everything."

Inside his hood, Karl felt a smile tug at the side of his lips. "That would be … helpful."

"Then it is settled." Dumbledore clapped his hands. "If you would like to stay at Hogwarts until we arrange a portkey, I dare say you will have no lack of friends looking in to help. You made quite the impression on young Harry. As a matter of course," his head dipped lower, as if imparting a great secret. "Would you happen to be interested in a Defense course position? I seem to be requiring a new instructor, following Professor Umbridge's rather … urgent departure."

Karl couldn't help but laugh. Things were looking up for once, and while paranoia was driving him to seek out danger, it was intoxicating to feel freedom once more. Pure, unadulterated freedom. What lay in the future would be waiting no matter what he did now. That was the pleasant aspect about Time. It was always there for you.

_Fin._

* * *

A/N: Thank you for your kind words, follows and favorites. I'm writing a sequel with the main question: what would a freed Unspeakable do in this situation? But I write slow, and have a few other stories that will be published first. Best wishes, and stay safe!


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